


La Douleur Exquise

by Anonymous



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: AFAB reader - Freeform, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Gender-neutral Reader, Homebrew A/B/O, Hurt/Comfort, Minor Angst, Reader-Insert, Warnings in author notes at chapter beginnings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-31
Updated: 2019-11-07
Packaged: 2021-01-15 06:02:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 78,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21248612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Abducted by Talon and genetically manipulated, you're irreversibly bonded with the mysterious Reaper. Struggling to weather the confusion of your new circumstances and your unbearable attraction to Reaper, you slowly get to know the alpha. It takes time, but eventually you begin to see the man behind the mask as you fall devastatingly head over heels.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> General notes:
> 
> Homebrew A/B/O includes standard human genitalia rather than traditional A/B/O (knots, etc.), no mpreg.
> 
> General warning for slight/possible dubcon and anxiety.
> 
> That said, please enjoy~

Crawling back to consciousness feels like walking through water. Everything is sluggish and heavy, the darkness pulling you down as you fight to hold on to the glimmer of awareness. Your eyes peel open with a prickling sting, and bright light sears through your retinas in a white-hot burn.

Your eyes sting as you blink against the glare, and you can feel the sharp, sandy grit gathered at the corners. Your muscles seize and burn as you lift a hand, and your chest vibrates with a soft, muffled grunt. You scrape away the sleep-crust with the edge of one fingernail. The movement feel stranger than it should.

There’s an oddness to your limbs, to your being. Something is off-centre, just slightly off its axis. It’s enough to make you dizzy with vertigo, though, and your mouth pulls into a frown as you push your body upright and glance around.

The room is reminiscent of a hospital, and panic shoots through you in a sudden, chest-tightening burst. You’re sitting on a small bed with thin white sheets, in an equally colourless room. The walls, ceiling, and bare floor are all the same monotonous sterile shade. The only furniture is the bed shoved into one corner. Across from the bed, the wall is cut in half by a shimmery textured surface, like opaque glass.

You’re also dressed in white. A simple, thin tee hangs loosely against your shoulders. It slips down just past your collarbone, hanging to mid-thigh, where a pair of pale grey sweatpants takes over. Your feet are bare, and you don’t need a mirror to know that your hair is a mess.

You lick your lips, scanning the room once more. You don’t see a door anywhere.

You drag your fingers through your hair, tugging out the tangles from the long, pale locks. A pang shoots through your temple, and you delicately prod the spot, hissing in a breath when you realize the deep ache must be due to a bruise.

It comes back to you in a rush, and your heartbeat kicks back up into a panicked frenzy. You remember the rough-and-tumble corner of the city. You remember scurrying home to your tiny apartment with a small clutch of packaged foods you swiped from a few of the nearby convenience stores. Mostly pastas and breads, but you got lucky with a yogurt drink and a decently fresh sandwich from one of them. You were tired and in need of a shower, but you hadn’t managed to sneak into one of the gyms in a while. You’d been looking forward to filling your stomach and getting some sleep. And then, somewhere around the corner, a building exploded.

Things are blurry after that. Fire and screaming and shards of glass and rubble raining down onto the asphalt. The glitter of flames in broken windows. The tattoo of gunshots, the chime of shattering glass. You remember the hulking shadow of the dark dropship looming overhead, and then the streets were filled with people pushing and running and screaming as armoured mercenaries slid down cables and began the massacre.

At one point you were shoved to the ground by fleeing neighbours. Later, a shop window exploded and caught you upside the cheek and arm. At some point you’d managed to curl up beneath a sheet of metal. You could smell the fear and panic of people as they got gunned down in the streets. You could smell the blood. The smoke. The violence.

You stayed there until the screams stopped, until the looting began. You could hear them getting closer to you, and you had only been able to hope that they wouldn’t notice you cowering amid the rubble.

You hadn’t been that lucky.

A tank of a man had found you, and he yanked the cover off of you with superhuman strength. His red helmet glinted in the raging fires, and you didn’t bother to kick or squirm as he caught your arm in a bone-crushing grip and hauled you out into the open.

“Have you found something interesting?”

The voice was calm and accented, and it belonged to a tall, hawkish woman with a shock of short hair. Her dual-coloured eyes narrowed in interest as she picked her way through the rubble to study you.

That was when you began to squirm. The man didn’t budge as he held you aloft by your wrist. Your arm was burning fiercely, and the brutal sting in your shoulder was beginning to bring tears to your eyes.

You had perhaps expected a bullet to the skull. You didn’t expect the woman to grab your face in one long-nailed hand. She pulled your jaw up, studying you with a quirked eyebrow as she twisted your face from side to side.

“An omega,” she observed, and the muted fear changed to full-blown panic.

You began to thrash. You no longer worried about injury, or getting shot. A bullet to the brain would be merciful if she meant what you thought she did. _An omega_. You were all too familiar with the leers, the threats, the danger of your mere existence. An omega partner was enough of a treat for the general population, but among criminals and traffickers, omegas were like _heroin_.

“Get off me!” you screamed, landing one solid kick against your captor’s armoured stomach.

The woman smiled, and when you twisted to lash out at her with your free hand, she took a smooth step back.

“This one will do nicely. Knock them out and we’ll bring them along.”

“Let me _go_! Just kill me!”

Her smile curled higher, amused and vicious. “Unfortunately I have much more interesting plans for you.” Her sharp eyes shifted to the man holding you. “What are you waiting for?”

The last thing you saw was her glittering eyes as the monster holding you raised his other fist, and with a ringing crack against your head, everything went dark.

Now, sitting amid the loose sheets in your small cell, you can barely breathe for terror. Your heartbeat pounds in your throat hard enough that you feel like you’re choking on it. Your skin tingles with fright, and your hands have gone clammy and shaky. You know you must be spilling off the scent of fear. You can only imagine how pathetic you look right now. How enticing for sadistic monsters.

When the opaque wall goes suddenly clear, you’re on your feet and poised to bolt, or lash out with your fists, or—

Freeze.

You freeze.

There are three people standing on the other side of the window. The woman from before is there, her manicured claws splayed against a control panel just out of view beneath the window. With her is a small, impish-looking woman with coloured hair and a mischievous smile. On your captor’s other side is a figure that you recognize from newsfeeds on public screens. Your blood runs cold and you can feel yourself go pale as your cheeks prickle with pins and needles.

The man is tall and broad, looming menacingly in a black cloak. You can see his chest armour above his folded arms. A single claw of his gauntlet taps against his massive bicep. A bone-white mask peers back at you, expressionless. The pits of his owlish eyes are black voids, staring right through you.

The Reaper.

Talon.

Your breathing goes shallow without permission.

You’ve been taken by Talon.

Your brain pieces together the scattered memory of news clips and the armour of the raiders and you really should have realized it before. The terrorists have abducted you, and your stomach has well and truly dropped to the floor.

“As you can see,” the tall woman continues casually, “they’ve recovered remarkably fast. We’ve already run a few blood and hormone tests, but I’d rather get some observational data. Much more interesting.”

The smaller woman presses a manicured hand to the glass, leaning close. “Aww, they look scared Moira. Do you think they’ll faint?”

Moira sniffs, sneering. “Remind me why you’re here, Sombra?”

Sombra turns wide eyes up at Moira. “For fun. Why did you kidnap a civilian to experiment on?”

Moira’s sneer falls away and she turns to Reaper. “I’ve already explained that it’s as a gift for Reaper’s excellent performance in the field as of late.” She pats Reaper’s arm and he grunts, shifting away from her.

“Bullshit. You picked up a stray to play with, and now that you’re done with your genetic experiments you want _me_ to dispose of it for you.”

A shiver races down your spine. You clench your hands, but your fingers are weak and sweaty.

“That’s not entirely true, Gabriel,” Moira says. “I would have been perfectly happy with running a single field test and then having the subject put down, but some of the others thought it would be a good gesture to let you have them as a present.”

Reaper growls. “Doomfist?”

Sombra laughs. “_Ay, dios mio_. Does he really think Gabe wants an omega? _Gabe_?”

Moira shrugs. “Whatever you decide to do with the omega is no concern of mine. I only want to see how they react to your scent. After that, you’re free to do whatever you want with them.”

You recoil, and the doctor turns to you with a cold smile. She reaches for something on the control panel, then frowns, then turns a glare on Sombra.

“You turned on the speaker?”

Sombra holds up her hands, but she grins wickedly and skips back a few steps. “Hey now, you weren’t paying attention. And it’s not nice to talk about people when you’re standing right in front of them.”

Moira clicks her tongue, then turns back to you with a scowl. “Well now, you’ve heard a little bit about your situation. I suppose you’re curious to know exactly why you’re here instead of dead.”

She waits a moment, but you don’t speak. You swallow, nearly choking on your own nerves.

Moira’s annoyance begins to fade into pride when she continues. “I have been working on a particularly interesting aspect of alpha-omega genetics. Did you know that it is possible to alter the DNA of an omega to bind them to a single alpha?”

You feel dizzy, but her words make it through the fog of terror.

“Obviously it’s slightly different from a voluntary bond between an alpha and omega, or a beta. It may have some different side effects. In fact, I predict that there is a high chance that it increases the intensity of the subject’s attraction.” Her smile is wolfish. “And it can be one-sided. I’ve attempted this experiment a few times before, with varying results. Betas have extremely unpredictable results. They tend to become standoffish and sulky. The few omegas I’ve had have become intensely infatuated with their partner, and I haven’t heard any complaints yet.”

Reaper growls low in his throat, and Moira pauses.

“Was that what you did to that omega that Maximillian brought in?”

Moira brightens. “Yes. That one was very responsive.”

“That slavering thing?” Reaper scoffs. “Falling all over itself for him. Pathetic.” His mask shifts, and those blank eyes turn back to you. “Remind me why I agreed to this?”

“Because she asked for a DNA sample before telling you what it was for?” Sombra offers.

“As I said, you can do what you want with them after we’re done here. Although I would prefer that you to keep them around and report any interesting behaviours. It could be very useful to my work.”

Reaper scoffs, but he doesn’t say anything more. Moira turns back to you with a grin.

“As I was saying, the alterations are one-sided. I’ve found a way to alter the genetic code of omegas to render them intensely and solely attracted to whomever I choose. All I need is a DNA sample of the partner, and I can program a devoted omega.”

“You call that programming?” Sombra snipes, but you can barely hear her over the blood rushing in your ears.

“What?” you breathe.

"You’d be surprised how lucrative of a business it is,” Moira muses. “There are many wealthy people who would pay handsomely to have a devoted omega that would do anything for them.” She glances at Reaper. “If we can monitor their behaviours and I can improve my work based on the data, then I think Talon won’t have to worry about finances for a long time. A _very_ long time.”

“Fuck,” Reaper groans. “That’s what this is about. You want me to babysit your pet project so you can make more omega armpieces?”

“Pretty much,” Sombra answers for Moira.

“Fuck,” Reaper repeats. Sharp talons drum against his own bicep. “And I’m guessing it’s too late for me to back out of this.”

“I’m afraid I can only modify the genetic sequence once. After I’ve input the DNA sequence for scent recognition of a specific partner, it cannot be changed.” Moira glances at Reaper. “If it’s any consolation, Akande and the others specifically voted on giving the omega to you as a reward for your recent successes.”

“A punishment, you mean,” Reaper growls. His shoulders fall and he relents. “Fine. If they chose this, they’re going to have to take responsibility if the omega gets in the way.”

“As I said,” Moira reminds him, “you are free to do what you want with them. Although I would _request_ that you keep them alive long enough for me to get some good research notes.”

“I would firmly request _the opposite_,” you spit, as the last of your terrified nerves fray and then snap. The panic has made you sick to your stomach, and now that you know even a hint of your fate, you can’t help it. The terror and horror have combined into a reckless desperation as you fling yourself across the room and slam a fist against the glass.

“I didn’t ask for this, you monster. I didn’t ask for you to abduct me and make me into some experiment, you _heinous bitch_!” You punch the glass, and it thuds bruisingly firm against your knuckles as your voice raises to a scream. “You murdering _hag_, I’m not your fucking _science project_.” You punch the window again, and your knuckles wail with agony. You pull back and spit on the glass, right at her face. She recoils a little, lip curling.

“You’re not _keeping _me, and you’re damn well not running any psychotic experiments on me, you _rancid_, trafficking _parasite_!”

Moira blinks once, then raises her eyebrows at Reaper. “I think they suit you.”

Reaper just hums, his head cocked to the side. He’s looking at you with more interest that before, and your heart sinks.

You open your mouth to cuss them out, or maybe beg for mercy, but Sombra beats you to the chase as she springs up and gestures to a holographic band on her arm.

“Akande wants to see us.”

Moira sighs, eyebrow twitching. “Can it wait five minutes?”

“He says he wants to talk now.” Sombra taps at the holograph. “I can keep him busy for five minutes,” she offers. “If you give me those fancy new sonic bullets you’ve been working on.”

Moira scowls. “They’re prototypes. And they’re more of Sigma’s project than mine.”

Sombra pouts, and Moira sighs again.

“I will see what I can do. I want five minutes for observation of the omega’s reaction to their alpha’s scent.”

Reaper shifts uncomfortably, but Sombra winks.

“Deal! Have fun Gabo, see you later!”

With a teasing wave of her fingers, Sombra ducks out of view of the window.

You swallow down the ball of desperation growing in your throat.

“Well then,” Moira says, straighten up and folding her hands together atop the control panel. “Let’s begin.” And the window goes white.

You stagger back, retreating from the blank space. It’s entirely opaque, and you can’t even see the shadows of Moira and Reaper on the other side. It makes you even more nervous to be blind, and you slink backwards towards the far wall, glancing around as you back up almost to the bed. The four walls are plain and simple. There’s no sign of any sort of hatch or vent on the ceiling or floors. You look back to the window, but nothing has changed.

Perhaps this was all just a wild story, meant to mentally torture you. Maybe they’ve had their fun with you, and they’re done now, they’re going to kill you and it’ll be over, but death is still so much better than—

A soft whoosh of air has you snapping your head to the side. A portion of the wall slides open, creating an open doorway in the previously seamless surface. Your weight shifts to the balls of your feet as you prepare to fight or flee as Reaper’s dark, hulking figure steps through the door and into your cell. He raises his head slightly, and you can tell he’s smelling the air. Smelling your terror and fright and desperate panic.

You grit your teeth and ready yourself to rush past him. Maybe you can get out the door, find some sort of weapon, or at least make yourself so much trouble that it isn’t worth keeping you alive. You shift forwards, ready to bolt, and suck in a readying breath—

And go still.

Your body registers it before your mind does. You breathe in, and there’s a scent in the air, unfamiliar but at the same time so familiar that it _hurts_. Your body relaxes without thought, shoulders dropping, weight evening out, hands falling to your sides. Your head is muddy, and you shake it to clear it, but then you breathe in again and it’s—

_God_.

Ecstasy.

The smell of him floods over you, and suddenly you can’t get enough of it. His smell is deep and musky, sort of spicy in a rich, delicious way. The hints of his scent unfold around you, and you pick out the traces of bitter reluctance, pungent pity, sickening disdain.

The whimper leaves you before you can stop it, and you stagger, slapping one hand against the wall for balance.

You can smell his faint disdain as he looks at you, and it cracks you open. Your chest splits in half, and you’re gasping for breath as tears prickle at your eyes.

_Alpha_, your body wails. _My alpha is upset with me_.

You feel sick, and dizzy, and but none of that matters because there’s a _pain_ in your chest, a desperate, aching agony. You’re suddenly frantic with the need to banish his disdain. You want your alpha’s approval. You _need_ it.

The light around you is bright and you know your pupils have gone huge. Your heart is still racing, but you don’t feel afraid anymore. You feel like a disappointment. Heartbroken.

You stagger a single step forward. Your body aches for him, and you don’t know how you’ve lasted this long without being pressed up against him, in his arms…. You want to prostrate yourself before him, to give yourself to him utterly and completely. You want your alpha to take you and use you, to have you for whatever he wants. If you could satisfy him even a little bit, you would do _anything_. You take another step, and Reaper stiffens.

You wish so desperately that he’d come closer. You don’t know why you feel rooted to the spot. You’re drowning in his scent even from over here, and you can’t imagine how overwhelming he’ll be when you’re in his arms, under his body—

“Approach them please, Reaper.” Moira’s voice comes from an unseen speaker.

Reaper doesn’t budge, and you’re on the verge of collapsing where you stand as your eyes go heavy and all you can think is _alpha, alpha, alpha_—

Reaper pulls back, whirling around and striding out. Moira splutters something, and Reaper growls.

“Five minutes are up. Doomfist is waiting.”

The door sweeps shut behind him, disappearing into the wall. His scent lingers in the room, but he’s _gone_, and a jolt of panic goes through you. You rush to the door, hands searching the wall. It’s utterly smooth, no sign of the door. You whimper, your heart cracking inside your chest.

He’s gone. He’s _gone_.

You sink to your knees with a keening wail. Your stomach flips and aches and you curl over yourself, forehead pressed to the wall. You desperately breathe in his lingering scent, but it fades without him here, and it breaks you apart as it disappears. Gone.

Tears roll down your cheeks as you choke on a sob. Your chest feels like it’s been stabbed, and you can’t stop tears of pain and anger. Pain, because your alpha’s scent is fading around you and you _need_ to be with him, not here in this cell. Anger, because you know that Moira did exactly what she promised. She hasn’t made you mindless—no, that would have been kinder. She’s made you desperate with every inch of your awareness, and even as you know exactly what she’s done to you, you can’t stop the longing that swells up inside you. You can’t stop gasping in breathes, struggling to catch the last of Reaper’s scent in the air. You can’t stop hating Moira and wanting Reaper, wanting him more than you’ve wanting anything.

You bury your face in your hands, smearing the tears across your cheeks. The wall is cool against your forehead, cool and steady and unmoving, even as you begin to tremble.


	2. Chapter 2

The hours pass in a haze. In the square, while-walled cell, there is no way to keep track of time. You try counting the minutes, but you lose track and have to restart more than once. There’s nothing to look at but white walls and a white floor, and you sleep in short, restless bursts. You wake up with a snap of fright every time, as the moment of sleepiness gives way to the memory of where you are. A prisoner of Talon, a genetic experiment of the insane doctor.

You spend your waking hours pacing the cell in a mix of frustration, anger, and, despite yourself, longing. Despite your rage at your captivity, your horror and fury at what Moira has done to you, you can’t get rid of the longing for the dark wraith whose scent feels like home. Somehow, you can’t bring yourself to blame him. You can’t supress the urge to see him again.

You drop onto the small bed with its tangled sheets. You bury your face in the pillow, struggling to block out your churning thoughts. If this keeps up, you don’t doubt that you’ll drive yourself insane with the constant back and forth between fuming and swooning.

When a quiet click interrupts the silence, you jerk upright. The widow is still blank, but Moira’s voice pierces the cell.

“Ah, good, you’re awake. I’m hoping this will be the last test we have to run in this setting.” She pulls back from the mic, her voice fading a little. “Go on in, I’m watching through the one-way glass.”

You look between the blank wall across from you and the equally plain window. A seam appears in the wall, and you scramble to your feet in time for the doorway to open and for Reaper to stride through. This time he takes a few steps inside, and the door sweeps shut behind him.

Your heart starts pounding immediately. It takes a second for his scent to flood your senses, but as soon as it does you’re weak in the knees and dizzy with joy. He’s back. He came back.

“Approach them, please,” the disembodied voice orders.

Reaper growls, but prowls towards you. His steps are heavy, and his boots make an imposing thud as he closes in. You should feel like prey being cornered by a predator, but you aren’t afraid. Or maybe you are, but you _like_ it. You want more. You want _him_.

He stops rights in front of you, and you sway a little. He’s so close you could touch him. He looms over you, a dark shadow with his mask gleaming in the shade of his hood. Your eyes flutter closed as his scent washes over you, and you force them back open, trying to stay upright.

Reaper’s head cocks slightly to the side.

“Hi,” you say softly.

He pauses, then hums. “You’re not as scared as you were yesterday.”

You shudder as the low purr of his voice. The heat of his body and the timbre of his voice and his _scent_—

You’re going crazy with him so close to you.

“Attempt physical contact with him,” Moira demands.

Reaper scoffs under his breath. “Annoying.”

Despite his irritation, Reaper raises one hand and reaches towards you. Your breath hitches as those wicked claws approach your cheek, and then his large hand touches the side of your face. The touch is so unexpectedly gentle, with his claws cradling your jaw almost sweetly.

Your heart bursts, oozing warmth all down your insides. Your stomach flips giddily, and your eyes flutter closed as you nuzzle into his hand. It smells like leather and spice and _him_, and you feel all floaty and warm as your strong, intimidating alpha cradles your cheek almost tenderly.

“Excellent,” Moira comments, but you don’t care about her. What matters is Reaper, your _alpha_, with his hand on your face. You reach up, cradling the back of his hand with yours. You nuzzle against his palm, relishing in the little thrills racing up and down your spine at the contact. You want nothing more than to curl up against him, to collapse into him and have him touch you all over.

A warmth swoops down into your stomach, and you peer up at your alpha through heavy-lidded eyes.

With a grunt, he pulls away.

It feels a little like he’s just put his hand through your chest and ripped out your heart. You’re gutted, hollow, and when you breathe it rattles around cold and hard in your empty ribcage.

Reaper drops his hand to his side, and even as your chest squeezes with agony and pain and rejection and devastation, you nearly whimper with the need to apologize, to fix it, to make up for whatever mistake that displeased him, to satisfy him once again.

“I’m—” You manage half the apology before Reaper turns to the blank window, interrupting you.

“Are you done?” he asks flatly.

Moira hums, satisfied. “Yes, I think I am. It looks like it was a very successful procedure. Perhaps even the best so far. The omega already seems quite attached. They’ve clearly imprinted, so you can take them with you now. You shouldn’t have any trouble controlling them.”

“Fine,” Reaper replies. He turns, striding towards the door. The space where he was feels suddenly cold, and panic sets in. You scurry forwards to catch up to him, desperate not to be left alone again. He glances over his shoulder as you catch up, and Moira hums in satisfaction.

“Perfect. Their submissive instincts have been heightened, so they won’t be troublesome.”

Reaper keeps walking, leaving the cell. Your only concern is keeping up with him. A piece of your brain is aware that you might be in trouble for leaving the cell, or that perhaps you should run for it, but the very idea of leaving your alpha’s side sends a surge of displeasure through your chest.

Your body is thoroughly in tune with Reaper, and you draw up behind his right shoulder, following him closely. The floor is cold under your bare feet, but you barely pay attention as you follow in Reaper’s tracks. It’s only when he rounds the corner that your attention switches away from him.

You press back against Reaper instinctively at the sight of Moira. She smiles cruelly as your face melts into a snarl. You can feel the rage swirling back to life, burning a hot bed of coals inside your lungs. Your hands twitch, and you imagine wrapping them around her throat, squeezing as she thrashes and chokes on her own foaming spittle—

“You’d better call them off,” Moira says calmly, and Reaper huffs.

“Don’t,” is all he says, but it strikes you like an arrow. It’s a command you can’t refuse, because it’s from _him_, but at the same time it hurts. He’s your alpha. He should protect you, should help you tear apart this witch of a woman who hurt you and made you afraid. You know you’re looking up at him with an expression of distress, your scent giving off waves of betrayal.

Reaper makes an irritated noise.

“I have to babysit this?”

Moira smiles. “Don’t forget to feed them and give them water. Oh, I should mention that they will be overwhelmed for a while, until they gets used to your proximity and the intensity of their reactions to your scent.”

Reaper growls, and then his hand closes around your elbow, tugging you along. You stumble to obey, and he drops your arm when you reach the door.

“Do let me know if they do anything interesting.”

You nearly snap at Moira, but Reaper ignores her, walking away, and you have to hurry to catch up. He doesn’t speak as you walk through long hallways lined with doors or windowed rooms. You feel lost, and a little bit frightened, but Reaper is with you and that stops you from panicking. Without permission, your fingers catch lightly on his cloak. He doesn’t seem to notice, not until you take a small handful to cling to. He shoots you a look, expressionless under his mask, but you can smell the hint of startled surprise that rolls off of him.

You hunch down, ready for either a smack or a scolding, ready for him to rip away from you, but he doesn’t. He just stares at you for a long moment, then shakes his head and keeps walking. He doesn’t shake you off.

Your stomach thrills with butterflies, and you fight the urge to press against his back and nuzzle affectionally into his shoulder blade.

Reaper eventually stops, typing a code into a tiny screen beside a door. The screen blinks green, and the door swishes open. Reaper disappears inside, and you rush to follow.

You get two steps inside the room before you stumble and nearly fall to your knees. As the door closes behind you, all you can think about is the _smell_. You’re dizzy with it, the deep musky scent that drenches ever inch of the room. Your mouth waters and your skin goes warm and you squeeze your eyes shut against the urge to drop to the ground and roll over for him. You stagger forwards a few steps, glancing wildly around. The room is simple, small but not cramped. Theres a small wardrobe against the left wall, and a table holding rounds of ammunition and a handful of scattered bullets. An open door on the right leads to a bathroom, and the far right corner of the room stretches into a small alcove.

Instinct draws you onwards, and Reaper doesn’t stop you. In fact, he seems more entertained that anything, watching in silence as you study the room and breathe in the smells of gunpowder and soap and _him_.

Your feet take you towards the far wall, and you pass by the window as you follow your nose to the little alcove. The space is almost cozy, large enough for another window on the wall, a little night table, and—

The bed. It’s large, almost luxurious with a thick gray comforter and soft silvery sheets. A pile of pillows rests at the head, but that isn’t what has you trembling.

The scent. That enticing, delicious, _irresistible_ scent of Reaper is thick and heavy against the fabric. Days and days of his presence have worked his scent deep into the space, and your body weakens as you draw closer and skim your fingers along the silken sheets.

You’re out of your mind with wanting, dizzy and hot and caught up in the scent of your alpha. _Home, home, home_, your instincts chant. Your fingers curl into one plush pillow, and you go shaky. You scoop the pillow up in your arms, hugging it to your chest. You close your eyes and duck your face, nuzzling into it, and you’re _gone_.

You collapse, luckily landing on the bed instead of the floor. You don’t care either way, far too lost in the ecstasy washing over you. You bury your face in the pillow, clinging to it like it’s your alpha. It smells like him, pure and unfiltered. You can smell the barest hints of smoke and gunpowder and sweat, and you whine. The spiced musk washes over you and your whole body is a mess of shivers and flame. You burn and shudder, pressing your face desperately into the pillow, struggle to breathe in more, to drink in every last bit of him that you can. You want to fill your senses with him, to be utterly overwhelmed. You don’t want to exist outside of his touch, his smell…

Heat pools deep down in your belly as you whimper and tremble and lose yourself. Your very soul cries out for him, panting and wanton as you begin to ignite.

“Alpha,” you wail, burrowing into the pillow until you can barely breathe. You can hear your heartbeat in your ears, and you can’t bear the absence of his hands on your skin, his mouth on your body. “_Alpha_—”

Hands yank you away, and for a moment you ragdoll, boneless in his grip. Reaper hauls you up and you stumble along as he half-carries, half-drags you to the bathroom. You feel like you’ve been drugged. You’re burning, hot all over and dizzy, head lolling heavily. Your brain is stuffed full of warm cotton, and when Reaper pushes you up against the bathroom wall, you short circuit. He moves away, fiddling with something, and you only just realize that you’re panting. Your hair is stuck to the back of your neck with sweat.

Reaper reaches for you, and you sink into his grip. You’re woozy with him, and you want nothing more then to let him push you back up against the nearest wall and get his hands on you—

Ice hits you, a torrent of painful cold, and you yelp. You flinch back, but Reaper holds you still under the spray of freezing water. You squirm, but in seconds you’re soaked and shivering. Only when you stop fighting against him does Reaper shut off the shower. He releases your arms, leaving you standing in the shower, fully clothed and dripping wet, shivering as every inch of your skin has turned to ice.

Reaper steps back with a grunt, and you don’t have the presence of mind to do anything more than stand there, shell-shocked and thoroughly drenched. Your skin has become an enemy, so cold it might peel off your bones.

Reaper is back a moment later, sighing gruffly as he pulls you out of the shower and shoves a towel into your hands. “Dry off. Then put these on.” He drops small heap of dark clothes onto the counter, then leaves, shutting the bathroom door behind him.

Your fingers shake with the cold, but you only spare a moment of baffled bewilderment before you peel off your soaked clothes and do your best to wring out your wet hair. The clothes he left must be his, because the plain black tee is as loose as it is soft. It falls to your knees, but you like the mass of fabric almost as much as you like that fact that it’s his. A blush crawls its way up your face as you smell the shirt before tugging on the sweatpants. To your surprise, the pants aren’t huge on you. They’re a darker grey than what you had before, but they fit well enough. Definitely not his, then.

You spare a moment to check your reflection in the mirror, but it gives you pause. Where a mirror once was is a mass of shattered glass. Your reflection is distorted, rippling between the fractured lines of glass. Some shards are missing from the ghastly mosaic, probably fallen into the sink or onto the counter when the damage was done. At the centre of the chaotic spiral is a large mess of missing pieces, but those that remain have a dark brown stain on their edges. Something long-since dried.

You back up until your shoulders hit the door. With a quick inhale, you turn and peek through the door. Reaper is standing there, arms crossed and leaning against the wardrobe opposite the bathroom. You push the door open, and he studies you silently. You look back at him, nervously rubbing the hem of your shirt between your thumb and forefinger. He smells slightly different. A little headier, even more enticing, if that’s possible. You shake your head to clear it.

“So what was that for?” You jerk a thumb over your shoulder.

“Moira could have warned me you’d do that,” he growls.

“Do…?” You’re lost, and you must look it.

Reaper’s head tilts a fraction. “You nearly sent yourself into a heat.”

You feel the warmth of mortification burning up your cheeks and ears, and you realize that he isn’t wrong. Just the smell of him was enough to drive you crazy and send you spiralling into a needy mess. You’d only heard of that happening as a rare thing, when the smell of an alpha or another omega’s heat was strong enough to trigger a heat. You’re suddenly grateful that he threw you in the shower.

“Oh. Thank you.” You clear your throat.

Reaper grunts. “I didn’t do it for you,” he mutters, surly. “Anyone with a nose could smell that on you. I don’t have the time to deal with a rut right now.”

He says it bitterly, and you suppose he’s right, but at the same time a part of you thrills at the idea that your alpha would be so affected by you. Your earlier gratitude erodes somewhat, and you find yourself wishing that he didn’t douse you in cold water after all. You can’t help but imagine how it would have gone, how he would have sensed the desperate heat washing over you and drawn closer, intrigued or maybe even hungry. He would have rolled you over onto your back, climbing over you and pinning you down beneath his bulk. Those dangerous claws would stroke your skin ever so gently as he reached down to strip you bare and—

“[Y/N],” Reaper says, and your brain snaps back so hard you get whiplash.

“H-How do you know my name?”

He considers you briefly. “O’Deorian got a profile when she brought you in. Sombra hacked into the city database.”

“O’Deorian?”

“Moira,” he clarifies. “She said you’d been orphaned in an omnic attack, and ran away from your third orphanage at sixteen. She assumed that you’d been stealing or working illegally after that, since there were no records of you having an apartment or a job.”

Your hands curl into tight fists. “I hate her.”

Reaper studies you. “You wanted to kill her earlier.” When you look up at him, he raises his chin slightly. “I could smell it. I’m pretty familiar with bloodlust.”

“I’m not like you,” you say quickly. “I’m not like any of you. I—this isn’t—” You feel kind of panicky again, and you press one hand to your temple, aggravating the tender bruise. “I don’t want to be here,” you say thickly. You’re not like Talon. You didn’t ask to be forced into this, to be imprisoned and experimented on. You may want to strangle Moira O’Deorian, but you’re not running around killing innocent people like the rest of them. “I’m not a _monster_.”

Reaper doesn’t quite flinch, but something about him goes colder. Harder. For a long moment he says nothing, and right as the reflexive guilt begins to flood into you, he pushes off of the wardrobe and nods towards the rest of the room.

“I’m supposed to feed you. Stay here and I’ll be back in a bit.”

He sweeps past you before you can utter a word, and by the time you spin around, the door is shutting behind him. You’re left in the silence of Reaper’s room, surrounded by his scent, heart aching with his absence.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings:
> 
> Harassment and abusive language (Not from Gabe).

“Really?”

You wrinkle your nose, turning your face to squint up at Reaper as he nudges the toe of his boot against your side once more. Your cheek tingles with the carpet-print, and you grunt, stretching and sitting up where you conked out on the floor. You’re still groggy, but Reaper is staring at you, so you scramble to your feet.

It already feels good to have him back beside you. His presence is comforting, despite how much you wish it wasn’t. You can’t deny the way that the sight and smell of him relax you instantly.

“What’s that?” you ask, and Reaper glances over his shoulder, to the covered plate on top of the table.

“Dinner. Go eat.”

You wander over to the table, perching on the chair and peeling the foil away. A rush of steam billows into your face, watery and unspectacular. The food is nothing special, but it’s a hot meal, and you fall on it like you’re starving.

Reaper watches in silence as you wolf down the meal, and you peer up at him when you swallow down the final mouthful of overboiled vegetables and some tough, unidentifiable meat.

“…That enough for you?” Reaper asks.

You nod quickly, even though you could eat more. You’ve been used to a vague emptiness in your stomach for so long that you think filling it would make you sick.

“Good. I’m not going back to the mess hall until tomorrow.” He reaches past you to grab the back of your chair, and you squeak, holding on as he pulls it out from the table and spins you towards the bed. “Get some sleep. And not on the floor. I changed the sheets.”

You blink at him, swallowing down the surge of disappointment. “You did?”

“I told you I don’t need to deal with your pheromones right now,” he growls. “Get up.”

You spring to your feet, scampering over towards the bed, but he doesn’t follow you. Instead, he yanks the chair back to the table, dropping into it and slamming a massive shotgun down onto the table. He starts to tug off one glove, but then pauses, glancing over his shoulder at you. You flinch at the empty, masked stare, but hold his blank gaze.

“What are you waiting for?”

“What about you?” you counter, and he makes a gruff, throaty sound.

“I don’t need that much sleep. Lay down and be quiet, you’re annoying.”

The words sting more than they should, and you duck your head, sulking off to the bed. You climb quietly under the sheets, pulling the blankets up to your chin. The absence of his scent makes your heart twist, and you turn your face into the pillow. The detergent is fresh and clean, sharp enough to sting a little bit. Just beneath it, you can smell the vague traces of Reaper’s touch, his scent clinging to the edges.

You close your eyes, curling up small and snuggling into the pillows. Your body yearns for your alpha lying beside you, and you shove down the urge, contenting yourself with his faint scent in your nose and the awareness of his presence across the room.

\--

Reaper is quiet. It’s the first thing you notice about him; the mysterious wraith, the murderous killer, both phantom and nightmare… he’s quiet. He barely speaks unless he needs to, and even then he’s a man of few words. Mostly he ghosts around, slipping out of his quarters and returning every once in a while, bringing food before he vanishes once more.

It doesn’t take you long to get frustrated with the same four walls. Even if the room is shades of gray instead of stark white, you can’t help but feel trapped and restless. When Reaper comes back to find you making a little tower of bullets on the tabletop, he just stares you down for a long moment as your tower wobbles and collapses, spilling noisily against the wood.

“I’m bored,” you tell him, before he can snap at you. “You’re gone all the time and there’s nothing to do.”

“What am I supposed to do about that?”

“Where do you go all the time?” you ask, and he crosses his arms with a long-suffering sigh.

“I’m around base. Working.”

“Can I come?”

You regret the question as soon as you ask it. You don’t exactly want to wander around amongst a bunch of murderous psychopaths, but at the same time you’re bored to tears after being stuck along in the room for days on end.

“Fine,” he says, and you’re caught off guard.

“What?”

“Fine, you can come. But don’t get in the way.”

You leap up, thrilled, and Reaper sighs again. He seems almost weary as he lets you follow him out of the room for the first time in three days.

It only takes you five minutes to realize that the Talon base is much bigger than you had thought it was. You pass through hallways and atriums with catwalks, and even a massive hanger filled with damaged ships and vehicles. You stare at the bullet holes and singe marks with wide eyes, clinging to Reaper’s cloak with one hand.

The hangar is noisy, each bay filled with a team pounding out dents or tightening bolts or messing with wires. You’re so caught up in the grease-stained concrete and suspiciously scraped-up ORCA jets that you bump into Reaper when he stops. You rock back on your heels, catching your balance, but Reaper doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t even acknowledge your presence as he nods to a large man with massive fists standing on the ramp of one stolen ORCA jet.

“Sombra said you wanted to talk.”

“Ah, Reaper! There you are!” The man grins, hopping down the ramp and resting his hands on his hips. He begins to say something else, but then his eyes flicker down to you and his eyebrows pop up before he grins again. “This must be the omega.”

Reaper stiffens just a little, but otherwise he doesn’t react. You do your best to school your features as you half-hide behind Reaper’s large frame. Shockingly, the other man is even larger than Reaper. He draws closer, moving to inspect you, and you shrink back with the beginnings of a snarl, clutching Reaper’s cloak even tighter.

“What do you want, Akande?” Reaper barks.

“Always straight to business, hm? Fair enough.” Akande waves a hand towards the jet behind him. “This one should be good to go in a day or two. You, Sombra, and Widowmaker will run the Paris mission then.”

You can smell Reaper’s irritation like a sharp slap. “You dragged me all the way out here just to tell me that?”

Akande laughs, deep and booming, and holds up his hands. “You got me. I was curious about the omega. Moira has been talking about them constantly, and I was wondering if you were enjoying your present.”

You bristle, and Reaper snorts, crossing his arms.

“Present? You gave me more work to do.”

Akande slaps him on the shoulder, and a growl pulls free from your throat. The man’s eyebrows shoot up and he studies you with amusement.

“Leave it,” Reaper mutters, but you aren’t sure if he’s talking to you or not. All you know is that you suddenly want to break Akande’s hand, or maybe bite off a finger.

“They’re more territorial than _you_ are,” Akande laughs, nudging Reaper once more before he waves you both off. “I won’t keep you. If the omega’s too temperamental for you, you can see what Moira can do about it.”

Reaper ignores him, turning and walking off. Your grip on his cloak pulls you along, but you glance back over your shoulder, glaring at Akande until the door closes behind you.

All at once, a cold feeling settles over you. You turn back to Reaper, swallowing as a chill shivers along your skin. “What did he mean?”

“Mm?”

“What did he mean, he’d see what Moira can do about it?”

Reaper huffs. “I don’t know. She’s insane. I wouldn’t put her above a lobotomy.” He says it like he’s commenting on the weather. He pauses, looking at you for a long moment before turning away. “Don’t worry, I won’t let her at you. You’re not _that_ much of a nuisance.”

You let out a tiny whine, but you follow Reaper into the next room. It’s smaller than the hanger, but large enough to hold a couple dozen or so mats and just as many people. The agents scuffle and wrestle, pulling each other into headlocks or beating on practice dummies or smaller opponents.

“Stay here.”

You look up in time for Reaper to shake his cloak out of your hand. You fight the reflex to grab it again, fingers flexing at your side. Reaper walks off with heavy, thumping steps, and you watch his retreating back.

The scuffling agents glance up as Reaper walks past, but most of them return to their own business quick enough. It’s only when you hear a surprised laugh that you realize a couple of the agents nearby are staring at you.

“That’s an _omega_,” one of them says.

Another man wanders over. A cruel smile carves up his cheeks, pulling at a scar bisecting the right half of his face. “You didn’t hear? Reaper got himself a _plaything_.”

“Reaper’s?” someone else asks, recoiling. “No way I’m messing with it.”

“Come on,” the scarred man laughs, starting towards you. “You scared of a little omega?”

“No, I’m scared of that maniac,” the agent replies, jerking their head towards the corner Reaper disappeared around.

“Coward,” a buzzcut man says, shoving the agent as he walks past to join the scarred man. “Hey, Kowalski, think Reaper’s willing to share?” He leers at you, and you bristle, tensing as another man wanders up.

Kowalski, the scarred man with short dark hair, grins. “What about it princess?”

Your back is to the wall, and you have nowhere to run. The three men box you in, Kowalski closest to you while the other two stand at either shoulder, a pack of slavering hyenas. You look past the buzzcut’s shoulder, praying that Reaper rounds the corner. Your heart is beginning to pound with nerves, and you jump when someone grabs your wrist. You wrench away _hard_, breaking the grip but leaving your skin stinging with a painful ache. The men laugh, and the third one inches closer. His nose is crooked, like it’s been broken at least a few times. He fakes a grab at you, grinning when you flinch back.

“What’s wrong little pup? Has he broken you too badly? If you want something a little tamer than that sadist, maybe we can show you a good time.”

“Get off me,” you growl, anger surging up at the insult. Kowalski and the buzzcut are alphas, and the broken-nosed man is a beta. Despite their rank and arrogance, you have a feeling that they’re more bark than bite. Your alpha could paste them across the walls in a heartbeat.

“Better watch your mouth,” Kowalski snarls, hand snapping out to grab your chin. You jerk back, but his fingers dig into your face as his eyes narrow and he swirls with anger. “No fucking omega tells me what to do—”

“Kowalski, Garavido, Hanson.” The names are deep, inarticulate growls. The men around you flinch back at the surge of threat that washes over the room, spinning to face Reaper, who is studying Kowalski’s hand with a burning black stare.

Reaper strides through them as they scatter for him. He stops in front of you, grabbing your face. Despite how rough his movements look, his sharp talons are gentle as he tilts your chin and studies the red marks left from Kowalski’s grip. Reaper is still looking you in the face when he speaks. His voice is so low and guttural it’s almost a growl. “You touch them again and I’ll take your hand.” He releases you, storming off, and you’re right there with him, catching a handful of his cloak as it flaps behind him.

Reaper’s angry. You can feel the dark pulse of his fury, tainting his scent with something smoky and thunderous. There’s a hint of something electric, the threat of a lightening storm. You have to walk fast to keep up with him as Reaper marches through the halls and finally sweeps into his quarters.

Your heart sinks at the return to the room. You don’t have time to mourn the loss of your freedom, though, because in the next second Reaper is grabbing you by the arm and pushing you into the bathroom, holding you still as he wets the edge of a towel and brings it to your face, scrubbing at your chin and throat. You’re frozen with surprise, not pulling away from the rough ministrations even as Reaper snarls and throws the towel to the side. He grabs your face with one hand, leaning down, and breathing in.

A shot of heat travels down your spine, and suddenly your bones are trembling and sore. Your knees feel weak.

Reaper releases you, stepping back. “Fucking Kowalski got his reek all over you,” he spits.

You feel a little dizzy, and you blindly reach for something to hold on to. Your hand finds Reaper’s cloak, and you curl your fingers into the thick material at his shoulder. He takes a short step back and you stumble into him. For the briefest moment your body presses against his armour, and you’re bathed in his scent. Your knees give out, and just as you collapse, Reaper’s strong arms fold around you.

For one moment your heart throbs with happiness, and then you’re yanked away. Reaper shoves you back, releasing you and recoiling. You sag against the wall, reeling, and Reaper’s fingers twitch at his side. He lets out a low, wordless growl, and shakes his head. He whirls around, a flurry of dark robes, and then he’s gone, storming out the door just as fast as he entered.

Your ears ring, and your heart goes cold, goes hard and icy and painful in your chest. You barely feel the wall at your back as you slide down it, collapsing bonelessly down to the floor. You feel like you’ve been slapped. Your mind stutters, trying to figure out where the injury is as the pain floods in.

And god, does it _hurt_. You gasp, hunching over yourself. You press your hand to your chest, checking for blood as something stabs into you. Your logical mind can’t seem to comprehend the lack of scarlet on your fingers. It hurts to breathe, and when it replays in your head, you crumble.

The way he pushed you away. The cold, irritated edge to his steps. The tearing feeling in your chest at the sight of him leaving you behind. A soft wail spills out of you, and you can feel tears begin to well up and drip down your cheeks. It shouldn’t hurt this much, you _know_ it shouldn’t, but your body doesn’t care what you think. The pain sears through you, goring your chest, and the tears won’t stop as you curl over yourself and sob.

Your head and heart throb. That witch of a doctor did this to you. This pain is her fault, but—no. She did this to you, but _you _upset Reaper. You made a mistake, and now he’s gone, and it’s all your fault. You heave out a shuddering breath, stomach flopping painfully. As much as you want to blame O’Deorian for this, you know that she isn’t the one that made him pull away from you. She isn’t the one that drove him from the room.

You dig your nails into your palms. The ice in your chest is tearing you open, and instead of blood, tears spill out from the wounds, drowning you in merciless, soul-numbing waves of agony.

\--

Reaper returns hours later, with food. By then you’ve managed to stop crying, although your face is puffy and red. Reaper doesn’t comment on it, just slides you the plate of food and motions to it.

“Eat this.”

You keep your head down, feeling scolded. You eat silently, and when Reaper sends you to bed, you go without comment. It takes you too long to fall asleep; every time you begin to drift off, your brain panics, kicking you back awake with the urgent need to make sure Reaper is there, to make sure your alpha is still around. After the third awakening, you grab a pillow and the comforter, dragging them over to Reaper’s worktable. He looks up from cleaning a shotgun as you drop down on the floor beside him, but you don’t speak and he doesn’t say a word as you snuggle up in your blankets and close your eyes.

You can feel his gaze on you for a long minute before he silently goes back to work. He doesn’t send you away, though, and the steady feeling of his presence is comforting enough that you drift off minutes later to the soft clicks of his shotgun parts.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warnings:
> 
> Anxiety/Panic attack, and Hurt/comfort.
> 
> Also @ everyone who has posted sweet comments I see and appreciate you. Every time I get a notification for one I get super motivated to edit the next chapter :3 Hope you're all enjoying so far!

“Stay in the room,” Reaper reminds you once again as he sets down a covered plate of food on the table. “I’ll be back late, unless things go extremely badly. If you really need something, go find Moira.”

Both of you already know that you’d have to be pretty desperate indeed to go looking for the mad doctor, but it remains unacknowledged as Reaper loads his shotguns and slings them into their holsters.

“It is very dangerous?” You surprise yourself with the question, but it’s been burning in your mind for hours now, ever since he told you he was leaving for a mission. You’ve already bitten the nail of your thumb down short.

“No more than the usual,” he replies, adjusting his cloak to cover his weapons. “If I’m not back by breakfast, get Akande or Moira to feed you.” He tosses a slender touchscreen onto the bed beside you. “You can message them with this. You can play with it if you’re bored, but don’t snoop.”

You nod, gingerly scooping up the tablet. You don’t have the heart to be excited by the new toy; Reaper’s leaving, once again, and you’re stuck waiting for him in the room. Even worse, this time he’s leaving the whole base. You don’t want to think about the reason why. When he’d been talking to Akande earlier, you heard mention of an assassination, and securing some sort of weapon.

You follow Reaper to the door, hanging in his shadow as he checks his weapons and equipment one last time. He pauses when he looks at you, like he isn’t sure if he needs to say goodbye, or how to go about it.

You break first, as the inevitably worry overwhelms you. You lurch forwards, flinging your arms around his middle in one quick movement. You’re half afraid he’ll rip you away again, but he just stiffens as you squeeze him in a hug. His scent overwhelms you, all dark and familiar, tinged with a determined intensity that you can’t help but find fantastically alluring. He must be able to smell your worry, but you can’t help it. If he needs a huge pair of shotguns for wherever he’s going, then you can’t imagine it’s easy.

“Be safe,” you whisper. You should let go before he gets sick of you, but you can’t dredge up the willpower to move. It feels so _right_ to be this close, to have your arms around him. You only wish he’d hold you back, pull you close like a real mate and show you that you’re his and he’s yours.

Reaper pats your shoulder once before extricating himself for your grip with an awkward cough. “I’ll be fine. If you need anything use the tablet.” He spares you one last glance before keying in the door code and stepping out into the hall. You nearly go after him, suddenly panicky with nerves. You don’t want to let him out of your sight, not if there’s danger. But then the door sweeps shut, cutting you off. Trapping you alone once more.

Reaper is gone for hours. You spend the first hour pacing the room until your nerves break and exhaustion sweeps in. Another hour wastes away lounging on the bed, and then you’re back on your feet, nervous and frustrated all over again. At some point you start cleaning. There isn’t much in the way of cleaning supplies, but you manage to find a little handheld vacuum forgotten in some drawer, and you clean the carpet, make the bed, and even clean out the shower before collapsing back on the bed with a groan.

Finally, you give in to the temptations of the tablet. You prop yourself comfortably against the pillows, tucking your legs up under you and tapping the screen awake. It’s fancy, slender and lightweight, and it only takes you a few minutes of fooling around to figure out basic operation. You even discover how to holographically project the contents in front of you, but it kind of makes you nauseous, so you settle with using it the old-fashioned way.

You try not to snoop, but you have to click into a few applications before finding a browser. You close the other apps without studying them, opting to check the news instead. As usual, the Global news is a mess. Worries about omnic resurgences in the East, and celebrity gossip channels screaming over one another. You scroll mindlessly through pages and pages of trending news and the latest gossip, but your fingers freeze when you catch sight of an article tagged with _Talon_.

_53 Dead in Terrorist Massacre_, the article warns. You click into it with a heavy feeling in your gut. The first thing that pops up is a picture, and you don’t even need to check the date to know when it was. It’s a picture of Beacon, the recently-developed, bustling city that was recently attacked by Talon operatives. There are pictures of raging fires, and some from later, the shells of smouldering buildings with piles of blackened corpses nearby.

_Witnesses identified the insignia of the radical group as they marched through the streets of Beacon last Thursday_, the article claims. _The vicious attack began in the slums and swept inwards, ending at the shopping district where city police and heroes from the recently relegalized Overwatch organization held off the attack. Overwatch and the Beacon police force managed to fight off the remaining Talon operatives at around 2 AM, a full 3 and a half hours after the attack initially began. _

_Recent reports estimate that the terrorist attack resulted in 53 deaths, with another 29 people injured. Those that are injured have been taken to Beacon City Hospital for treatment. A statement from Overwatch Strike Commander Jack Morrison was given at the scene: “Taking down Talon is a top priority right now. These maniacs can’t be allowed to run free and cause havoc. I’d encourage civilians to keep their eyes peeled and to contact us if they have any information.” When questioned as to the motivation behind the Talon attack, the Strike Commander admitted that the attack might not be “entirely random”, and Beacon Police Chief Taron Lefevre speculated that the terrorists “may have been looking for something”. Notably, Lefevre was also overheard in a discussion with Deputy Bradshaw about raided warehouses and missing equipment. Updates to the story will be linked below._

The article ends with little fanfare. Beneath it are a few donation links to the families of victims, or links to demonstrations of solidarity amongst the Beacon citizens. On one sidebar, a few related articles advertise themselves. Two seems uninteresting, but one of them has a thumbnail of a video, and you select it. The video buffers for a moment, and then the feed begins.

It’s grainy, blurred with smoke and shaky with an amateur hand. It’s hard to make out more than a vague crowd, but you catch glimpses of police uniforms, and a few people you vaguely recognize from the news. An older man wearing a long blue duster is standing with a few officers. Beside him is a tiny woman in bright orange, standing out sharply amidst the smoke and rubble. One of two other agents move around, but you can’t make out the details as the camera shifts when the blue-coated man steps forwards.

“Taking down Talon is a top priority right now,” he announces. His voice rings loudly, but even so, the heavy breathing of the cameraman masks some of his words. “…Maniacs…run free and cause havoc. I’d encourage civilians…”

“Where were you three hours ago?” one woman screams somewhere nearby. The crowd shifts a little. “My _brother _is _dead_!”

“Why did they attack here?” someone else demands.

The video shifts to the ground, filming smoke and shoes and rubble for a moment. You can hear the voices of police officers calming the crowd, trying to move them along and send them home. The video cuts out.

Your fingers feel like they’re buzzing. For one wild, awful moment you wonder if you could send a message, post a comment, somehow let someone know where you are. Abducted by Talon. Being held prisoner.

It’s ridiculous, and a moment after the thought crosses your mind, you scoff at yourself. First off, you don’t even know where you are. Telling people that Talon has you isn’t going to help. And, even though they abducted you, another part of you hesitates at the thought of calling for help. Moira O’Deorian abducted you, and you wouldn’t be sorry to see her head on a spike, but _Reaper_. You don’t want him to get hurt. You don’t want to leave him. As crazy as you are for wanting it, you can’t help it. He isn’t cruel to you. Maybe he’s a little cold, or maybe he breaks your heart a little, but he’s your _alpha_.

You fight a shudder at the thought of losing him. He’s already made a home inside your chest. You don’t think you could leave him without ripping out your heart. Whatever O’Deorian did, it feels real enough to you. Reaper is your alpha, and you’re his omega. You’d rather die than see him suffer.

The door whispers open, and you flinch hard enough to drop the tablet. You scramble for it, clearing your search and closing the app as Reaper drags himself into the room. His scent washes over you and you clamber off the bed, heart swelling, tablet forgotten.

“You’re back,” you gasp, breathing him in. That familiar, precious warmth floods back into you, and you luxuriate in the deep spicy musky, the woodsmoke tinge, the—

You halt.

Reaper drops one gun, then the other onto the table. He slides off a belt of ammunition, and it clatters heavily against the wood. He braces himself against the table for a moment, his movements heavy and forced.

He smells like exhaustion and anger and iron. Blood.

“What happened?” you ask quietly.

Reaper doesn’t look at you. “Nothing,” he mutters.

“You’re hurt,” you try again, and he growls, turning on you.

“I’m _fine_. Go to bed.”

For once you don’t budge, and he grunts, pushing past you. You reach out to catch his arm, and for a brief second, you think he might shake you off or strike you. Either way, you’re too wrapped up in him to worry about yourself. You can smell the blood strongly, tainting his usual scent. You can smell his pain, even though it isn’t horribly strong. Your heart aches for him, and it takes a few moments, but Reaper relaxes somewhat. Eventually, when you tug his arm, he follows along behind you without complaint. Reaper allows you to bring him to the bathroom, and he even lets you sit him down on the toilet seat before he shakes his head and growls.

“What are you doing?”

“Let me see where you’re hurt.”

“Not—that.” He reaches up, his claws pressing against the mouth of his mask, as if trying to block out your scent. “Stop.”

You sit back on your heels, clutching a clean cloth from the small cabinet under the sink. “What do you mean?”

“Your _scent_,” he snaps.

It must be your worry and concern for him that are doing it. You don’t notice anything, but in all likelihood you’re giving off soothing pheromones, instinctively trying to calm him and comfort him as you do your best to help.

“I can’t help it,” you admit, tugging on his cloak. “Off.”

Reaper snarls, but he yanks of his cloak. The heavy fabric falls around his thighs, and you reach up to help him with his armour. He smacks your hands away, and you close your eyes against the instant stabbing in your heart. You blink back a rush of tears, waiting for Reaper to strip off his armour and peel up the tight tee beneath. He bares his left side, and part of his stomach, and suddenly you can’t think.

You’ve only ever seen him covered head to toe in armour. This is the first time you’ve seen _skin_, and you can barely breathe. Without the layers covering him, his scent is powerful, mixed with sweat and blood. His skin is smooth and bronze, marked with pale slashes of long-healed scars. So many of them. You can see the edge of his abs, strong and defined. The top of his hip bone just barely peeks above the holsters and belts slung low around his hips.

Your hand shakes as you reach for the bathtub faucet, turning it on and soaking the cloth. You reach up, hitching his shirt just a little bit higher. The black fabric is damp with blood and sweat, but you’re more focused on not letting your knuckles brush his skin. You don’t think you could survive it.

Your body moves on autopilot as you bring the wet cloth to the mess of blood and dirt and sweat just beneath his ribs. Reaper hisses as you clean the wound, squeezing out filthy water into the tub before rinsing the cloth and returning to your ministrations. It takes a little while to clear away the mess, but when you do you feel your shoulders sink with relief. The wound doesn’t look bad; it’s a long slice, from some sort of blade perhaps, but it isn’t terribly deep. You gently touch the skin on either side of the gash, testing for bruising, and Reaper sucks in a sharp breath.

A new scent rolls over you. It’s simmering, hot and delicious, and your fingertips hum with electric energy where you touch him. Your body is hot, and suddenly you are so, so aware that you’re on your knees before him, settled between his thick, gorgeous thighs. You can’t breathe. You can feel the warmth radiating off his body. He shifts just slightly, and the hem of his tee tugs to the side, revealing his navel.

You’re dizzy. You’re dizzy and on fire and _oh_, you’re burning alive. You can’t breathe and you can’t think and he smells so absolutely wonderful, your alpha, and he’s here, he’s _here_, and you’ve missed him so badly, you _want_ him so _badly_—

You look up at him, into the empty eyes of his mask, and you release your grip on his shirt. Your hand finds its way to his chest, and you can feel the heat and the supple give of flesh instead of armour. Your fingers, still against his skin, are aflame.

“Reaper,” you breathe. You can feel the electricity in the air, shivering down through your spine and making your very _bones_ ache for him. You’ve never wanted anything the way you want him to lean down, to shift his mask to the side, to pull you into his lap and kiss you—

Reaper’s hands close on your wrists, and he drags you to your feet as he stands, pulling your hands off of him. You stumble, tripping, but he shoves you away from him firmly. You catch yourself against the wall, mind flashing back to the last time, to him pushing you away and storming out, leaving you alone and heartbroken—

“Wait,” you stammer, but he’s already sweeping past you. You catch his arm, desperate. “Wait, please, Reaper I—”

He yanks his arm away from you, rough enough that you stumble with the force of it. “Get off me,” he growls, and in a swirl of black he grabs his cloak and armour and shoves his way out of the bathroom.

Your head pulses with your heartbeat, a wet, tidal sound. You can hear your breaths turn trembly, shuddering their way in and out of your fragile lungs. Your body is numb. Somehow you make it to your knees, collapsing to the floor without braining yourself on any edges. He pushed you away. He doesn’t want you near him.

_Get off me_, he said.

Your heart doesn’t break. It _shatters_. It cracks, fractures, splinters down a long line that you feel like a sliver wedging it way deep into your chest. Then your ribs cave in and your bones break as pain shatters though you. You can’t breathe, you’re gasping and all that’s coming out are these tiny little wheezes, high-pitched and desperate and you can’t _breathe_ and it hurts so _much_, so much that you keep touching your chest expecting to see blood but the only thing flowing is your tears and it hurts it hurts it hurts—

Your stomach clenches, and you feel sick. You sob, tears and snot making a mess of your face. You’re alone, alone, alone and your alpha—he doesn’t want you. You want to bite off your tongue or tear out your own eyes just so you have some blood to prove you’re hurting. You can’t possibly be in this much pain without an injury.

You wail, long and keening, choking off with a sob.

Your skin itches in discomfort, and your bones shake with sickening agony. You can hardly stay upright, can hardly stop from curling up and screaming until the pain stops or you go hoarse. You don’t know whats wrong with you. You shouldn’t feel destroyed over something so small as Reaper’s rejection, but every time you think about the way he pulled your wrists away, the way he couldn’t get away from you fast enough—

But you know, you _know_ he isn’t like you. He hasn’t been manipulated, hasn’t been crafted to feel what you do. He doesn’t feel anything for you. He doesn’t want you, and he never will. You mean nothing to him. You’re just a pathetic fool, helplessly his, and no matter how much you want him, he will never be yours.

Your stomach lurches, and the nausea finally crests. Revolting bile surges up, and you drape yourself over the toilet, pushing up the lid in time for the vomit to spill out of you. You wretch, sobbing. You puke up acid and tears, your stomach roiling, clenching, each bout leaving you weak and shaking.

You can’t stop crying. It feels like you’re trying to vomit up your heart, but it’s in so many jagged pieces your body will spend days seizing before they all dislodge. You close your eyes but the tears still come, and the pain doesn’t lessen, even as you convulse with nothing left to vomit up. Finally, finally, you collapse. Silent tears run down your cheeks, mingling with sweat. You’re uncomfortably hot and cold, and your body is so very weak, so very shaky.

You feel the lightest tug, and only then do you realize someone is holding your hair back. Your eyes are nearly impossible to open, but you manage it with a monumental effort. The air stings painfully, and the lights are too bright and your head hurts and you just want to curl up and die, but then you realize it’s Reaper. He’s right there, crouched beside you, holding back your hair with one gloved hand. He hands you a glass of water with the other, and you manage to rinse your mouth. You take a single sip before giving up, collapsing limply against the edge of the tub. The surface is cold against your neck, and you close your eyes, head lolling against it. Strands of hair stick to your forehead and temples.

“Shit,” Reaper hisses, and he releases your hair as he tries to coax the glass of water back into your hands. “Drink this.”

You’re still so very weak, so thoroughly spent, but he’s the one asking you, and you’d never refuse him anything. It takes a minute for your fingers to work, and then a long, long time for you to choke down the tiniest sips. Reaper makes you finish the glass, and you almost make it, choking the last mouthful back into the cup with a splutter.

“You’re sick,” he mutters, pulling a strand of hair off your face with a careful twitch of his talons.

You don’t have the energy to respond as you shiver, wedged against the bathtub and the wall.

Reaper curses again, and he slips away from a moment. You nearly fall to the floor as you attempt to rise and follow, but he returns before you can collapse again. He crouches down, and by the time you realize what’s happening, he’s scooped you up into his arms. You feel small in his grasp as he carries you out of the room and down the hall. He’s back in his armour and cloak, hood pulled down over his mask. Your head lolls against his shoulder, but you’re much too weak to lift it more than a little.

He carries you like you weigh nothing. Reaper cradles you in his arms, and from this vantage point you can smell a strong spike of determination and, beneath it, a swirling concern. You close your eyes, hiding your face against his chest until he steps through a doorway and the air turns sterile.

“Moira!”

He must notice your sudden surge of panic, because his arms tighten around you, reassuring. Even so, you whimper, clinging to him. You don’t want O’Deorian anywhere near you, especially not when you feel like your guts have fallen out of you and you might be dying.

“What brings you—oh, that’s interesting.” The doctor hums as she approaches, and you squeeze your eyes tight, curling closer against Reaper.

“What happened?” Moira asks, shuffling something in the room. You hear a metallic clang, and the crinkle of plastic.

“They’re sick. They threw up. I think they had a—panic attack.”

“Symptoms?” she asks. “You can put them down here.”

“No,” you plead.

Reaper’s arms tighten on you, and then he lowers you onto a table. You grab for him, flailing, but he catches your hand, trapping it. You curl up on your side, trying to make yourself as small as possible. You’re shaking, and you’re so busy trying to control your fear that you tune out their conversation until Moira lets out a sharp, humourless laugh.

“Well,” she muses, “I knew you were cruel, but I didn’t think you were that cruel.”

“…What?”

You crack open your eyes slightly. Your knuckles are white with how hard you’re gripping Reaper’s gloved hand. Moira fiddles with something, and you hear another crunch of plastic.

“I don’t need to examine them,” she says. “I told you before that the genetic manipulation is practically identical to bonding with a mate for the omega. You said you’ve mostly been keeping your distance from them.” She clicks her tongue. “Perhaps it slipped my mind and I didn’t explicitly mention it to you. One side effect of the procedure is that, with the intensity of the bond and the omega’s devotion to their partner, any form of rejection is an unbearable agony that takes a physical toll on them.”

“_What_?” Reaper growls.

You can hear the cold smile in Moira’s voice. “Repeated rejections would be akin to torture. I’m surprised they lasted this long before becoming physically ill. They must be surprisingly resilient. By now I would have expected them to have wasted away, or at least spiralled into instability. Maximillian got bored with his first one, and it unfortunately died of grief.”

Reaper’s voice lowers, and a wave of anger and resentment rolls off of him. “You’re saying I need to… what?”

“Stop ignoring them, for one,” Moira suggests. “Attempt to be kind. Reciprocate their affection.” She laughs coldly. “Well, I’m sure you’ll be able to manage _something_. I know I said that you’re free to do what you want with them, but I must admit, it’s a little disheartening to see my achievements waste away from torture.”

“_Torture_,” Reaper snarls. “You could have fucking mentioned this was a _job_ instead of a ‘_gift’_.”

“Gift was not my first choice of words,” Moira admits slyly. “I was merely in charge of the science. Blame Akande and the others for your _responsibilities_.”

“I’ll be sure to,” Reaper says darkly. He works his hand out of your grip and you shudder, curled so tight it’s hard to breathe. “What do I do about this?”

“Make sure they rest. Try to avoid any further acute distress on their part. Unless you’re aiming for a breakdown.”

Reaper grumbles, but he doesn’t say anything more as he pulls you back into his arms. You stay tightly balled up, tense and shaky while you’re anywhere near Moira.

“Gabriel,” she calls, and Reaper pauses on the threshold without looking back. “I’m not one to breach client confidentiality, but Maximillian may have had a particularly strong hand in that decision.”

He grunts, and then the door shuts behind you, leaving Moira behind. You don’t feel entirely safe until you’ve put a few more hallways between you and her, and even then you only truly relax into Reaper’s arms when he carries you back into his room. He takes you over to the bed and sets you down atop it. He sighs at your reluctance to let go of him, moving to peel your hands away. He pauses, though, and makes a frustrated sound.

“What am I supposed to do with you?” he asks. If feels rhetorical, but you know exactly what you want from him, and you can’t help yourself.

“Come here,” you plead, tugging him towards you.

He hesitates so long you think he’ll refuse you. Then, unexpectedly, he relaxes. “Fine. Move over.”

You scramble to the far side of the bed. Reaper grunts, his shoulders hunching up a little before he finally drops down onto the bed. You’re cautious, afraid to scare him off, but he lets you coax him to lay down beside you. Your heart is racing, stomach giddy, and you nearly laugh aloud.

“What?” Reaper demands stiffly, noticing your supressed giggle.

“Nothing,” you say, but when he growls you relent. “I can feel my heartbeat. I—I really thought that maybe it broke.” You drag your fingers against your collarbone, nervous. “It hurt so badly. I thought—it felt like I was dying. And here it is, perfectly fine.” You can feel the tears welling in the corners of your eyes, and one trickles down your temple. “It was all in my head.”

Reaper is silent for a long, long moment. “I’m—” He halts, uncertain. “I’m sorry.”

“What for?” you whisper, staring up at the ceiling. Even without looking at him, you’re so aware of his body, of the warmth of him, the intensity of his presence beside you. You’re hyperaware of his every breath, his every shift. It’s as if a part of you has decided to focus solely on him. Like your mind almost belongs to two bodies. You exhale in one long, slow breath, rolling over to put your back to him.

“I didn’t realize you were suffering that much.” Reaper shifts, the bed dipping beneath his weight. You can feel the heat of his body inches from yours as he rolls onto his side. His body is so close to yours, curled around you without touching. The distance is almost painful, but even this much proximity is complete bliss.

“You don’t feel the same as I do. You haven’t been… altered. You don’t—” Your voice breaks before you can voice the fact that he doesn’t and never will want you the way you want him. “You don’t want this,” you say instead.

Reaper hums quietly, and one clawed hand briefly rests against your shoulder. You place your hand over it before he can move away, and he lets you move his arm to drape over your side. You watch his fingers twitch slightly, uncertain of how to hold you before he relaxes into it.

“This—” he says softly, “this is okay.”

His body is close and warm, and with his arm draped over you, you feel safe for the first time in a very, very long time.

“This is okay,” you whisper back, as the deep, steady sound of his breathing lulls you to sleep.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warnings:
> 
> Mild violence, harassment, abusive language.

In the few days following your illness, Reaper keeps you closer than before. He allows you to follow him around the Talon base as he handles various tasks, from checking weapons to attending mission briefings. Akande gives you a strange look the first time you follow Reaper into the office, but when Reaper meets his questions with stubborn grunts, he relents and pretends you aren’t there. The only time you aren’t with Reaper is when he leaves the base for a mission. He leaves far too frequently for your liking, and even though he returns without injuries, you can’t help but worry.

When Reaper storms into the room somewhere past three AM, you sit up with a startled jolt. You’d been trying to sleep, but the nerves wouldn’t let you rest until your alpha returned. You open your mouth to call out to him, but a low thud and a curse stop you. The bathroom light flickers on, shedding light into the room. You can make out Reaper’s silhouette for a brief second before the light flicks off.

Reaper stomps across the floor, and his shotguns slam roughly against the table. A low, furious growl rips out of his throat and you hear two softer thumps and a brittle clatter as he hurls more items onto the table. From the fabric-and-metal sound of the former, you can picture him flinging his gloves against the wall. The clatter, though, confuses you.

“Reaper?”

His shadow stiffens. He takes a moment before speaking, his voice low and tight. “You’re awake?”

Something about his voice sounds different. Clearer. You frown, sitting up straighter. The blankets slip off your legs as you move to the side, and you get up, toes curling against the carpet. “I couldn’t sleep.”

Reaper breathes in, exhaling in a rush. His shoulders fall a little. “Go back to sleep.”

Reaper doesn’t move, not even when you pad quietly over to him. You stop behind him, but he doesn’t turn. Even the in the dark you can see the tension in his body. He’s rigid, crackling with fury and frenetic energy.

“What happened?” you ask gently.

“I told you to go back to—!” His snarl cuts off abruptly when he whirls around and finds you close enough that his sharp movement nearly got you an elbow to the face. He takes a sharp step back, bumping into the table and sending guns and gloves rattling sideways. You don’t move, and neither does he, and when the silence stretches on for another long moment, you ask again.

“What happened?”

He growls, and the tension is back in his body, tight and burning. “Fucking idiot team,” he snarls. “Incompetent, trigger-happy morons who think they don’t have to listen to orders. And _fucking _Overwatch—” He brushes past you, dropping heavily onto the bed as he releases his pent-up frustration in a hiss of insults. “They gave me a team of imbeciles who didn’t listen to _shit_, and to top it all off Overwatch got involved. We didn’t just fail to obtain the objective, but we lost _six operatives_, and Overwatch took one of them alive.”

Reaper doesn’t flinch when you perch beside him on the foot of the bed. You can feel his anger and frustration like a heatwave rolling off his body. Underneath the blistering rage, though, you can sense something else. Self-loathing, a smack of bitter, sickening failure. He growls again, elbows braced against his knees as he hunches over and spits invective.

“If they gave me a halfway competent team then at the very _least _we could have secured the objective. Now I’m the one getting hell for losing a live operative to Overwatch.”

His feelings are roiling, a stormy sea. You reach for him, and he startles when you tuck your hand through his elbow and lean your head against his shoulder. He goes all stiff, but you slowly nuzzle against his arm and give his forearm a little squeeze.

“They’re idiots,” you reassure him. “They should have listened to you.”

Slowly, slowly, he relaxes. It’s like watching a glacier melt. First his arms untense, and then his shoulders drop slightly. He lets out a long breath, and then he softens a little. His energy dims as the raging storm tempers.

“You’re just saying that,” he snorts, even though he’s relaxed considerably.

You don’t bother to hide your grin in the darkness. “I’m not. I’ve heard of what you can do. I know that if a mission has gone badly, it’s not because of you. It’s because a pack of morons that won’t listen to you is a hinderance rather than a help, so it’s no wonder things went badly.”

He stays quiet, and you listen to his breathing as you rest your cheek against his shoulder. You rub your free hand up and down his arm, massaging gentle circles that you hope are reassuring, or at the very least comforting.

Reaper barks a laugh, shaking his head. “That’s not true. I could have done better. But I appreciate your confidence.” The last bit sounds sardonic, and you lightly headbutt his shoulder. He’s relaxed almost completely, and he no longer smells like a brewing firestorm. Instead he smells calm, his usual scent tempered with a heavy tiredness. You keep rubbing his arm, fingers skimming down over leather and armour and cloth. You reach for his hand, tucking your palm against his before you remember that he isn’t wearing gloves. You register a brief touch of warm flesh before Reaper wrenches away.

He recoils like you burned him, his arm yanking out of your hold as he surges to his feet to get away from you. The suddenness startles you both, and you can smell the snap of tension as he wars with shock and anger and something else.

Your chest constricts, and you suck in a tight, painful breath. “I’m sorry,” you whisper. Your voice is tremulous. Pathetic. Your heart is pounding, and you’re suddenly terrified he’s going to storm off and leave you alone. You’re such an idiot. You’re so stupid, and you should have been more careful, you should have _thought_—

Reaper’s heavy steps move away from you and you can feel the tiny bubble of hurt pop. Your eyes are wet and your nose stings, and tears are already beginning to dribble down your face when Reaper sits back down beside you.

“Shit,” he mutters. “Don’t. Don’t do that.” He reaches for you and you flinch, afraid to touch him and lose him again. He lets out a quiet hiss, grabbing your hand with his freshly-gloved one. His taloned fingers curl around yours carefully. “Stop crying. You smell like—”

“Like what?” you whisper, sniffling back residual tears. The knot in your chest loosens, and even as the last of the pain unfurls, you’re leaning back into him, slipping your fingers between his. Helpless.

Reaper just shakes his head, but he doesn’t pull away. “I don’t… know how to do this,” he admits, voice low. His hand squeezes yours faintly to illustrate his point. “I _don’t _do this.”

“Do you hate me?” The question leaves you before you can think better of it. “Do you hate me, for making you do this?”

He breathes in deep, lettings it out slowly. “No.”

You’re dizzy with relief, and you turn your face into his shoulder. “Why not? You said yourself that I’m an inconvenience for you. You don’t want this, and it’s my fault you have to do things like this.”

“It’s not your fault,” he mutters. “If I was going to blame someone, I’d blame O’Deorian for being thoroughly insane and completely devoid of morals.” He snorts. “Believe me, I’m aware how hypocritical that sounds.”

“I don’t think you’re devoid of morals,” you tell him, and he lets out a startled laugh. You frown. “You’re kind to me. You’re doing this for me,” you say, squeezing his hand. “You’re putting up with me and keeping me alive.”

“That doesn’t make me a good guy,” he says flatly.

“Maybe not to everyone. But to me it does.”

Reaper swallows. You can feel his breath stir your hair as he looks to the side.

“Reaper?”

“Mm?”

“You’re not wearing your mask, are you?” You’d put two and two together after realizing how clear his voice sounds, like there’s nothing muffling the deep timbre that shakes you down to your core.

Reaper stiffens, but you don’t move.

“Did you see…?”

“No. Your voice sounds different, and I heard you throw it down with your gloves.”

He lets out a breath, but he doesn’t relax. His scent muddies with anxiety and discomfort.

“You don’t have to wear it around me if you don’t want to,” you tell him gently.

“Yes I do,” he growls. “Trust me, you don’t want to see what’s under it.”

You start to argue, but then he coughs, and gingerly extricates himself from your grip. “It’s late. You should rest. Come on.”

You sigh, but you don’t complain as he shuffles around, replacing his mask and finally laying down beside you. It’s become routine, for him to stay with you until you fall asleep. Sometimes he’ll get up to clean his guns or stand morosely at the window, but when you wake up to find him missing, he’ll indulge you with his presence until you fall back to sleep. He lies at your back, unbearably close but not touching except for the arm he drapes loosely over your waist. You long to press back against him, but cowardice wins out every time. As much as you ache to snuggle into his touch, you’d rather die than lose the warm comfort of his almost-embrace. You wish you could stay awake forever to revel in his proximity, but you can barely last five minutes. Somehow, with his body so close and protective, with his scent caressing you like a gentle, lapping wave, you sink into sleep unbelievable easily every single time.

\--

“I wasn’t insulting your generosity, I was just _saying _it might be nice to have some clothes that fit me properly. Just, you know, as an option.”

“And when exactly do you think I have time to go shopping?”

“The internet exists,” you hedge, and Reaper scoffs, holding open the mess hall door just long enough for you to slip through behind him into the quieter hallway.

“I thought you wanted something that fit.”

You tug at the chest of the shirt you’re currently wearing, illustrating your point by wordlessly bunching up two large handfuls of extra material. “I’m _tiny_.”

“Give it back then.”

You purse your lips, unimpressed.

You take two halls in silence before Reaper sighs sharply. “Fine. I’ll look into getting you some more clothes when I have a chance.”

You celebrate with a tiny fist pump, skipping along beside him. Reaper snorts at you, but it seems more amused than annoyed. You flash him a grin, and he grabs your arm, pulling you up short barely an inch before a door that flings itself open. You retreat a few steps, getting out a “thanks” before a large figure steps out into the hall.

“Reaper, perfect timing! Come in, I need to discuss an upcoming mission with you.” Akande pauses, and he glances from you to Reaper meaningfully. “A sensitive mission.”

You can’t read Reaper’s emotions beneath his mask, but when he turns to glance at you, you offer up a timid smile.

“They won’t be a problem.”

You glow at Reaper’s comment, and the happy little thrill doesn’t vanish, even when Akande frowns and shakes his head.

“I’m afraid our client will be on video conference with us, and they don’t want more ears than strictly necessary.”

Reaper growls a little, but he relents. “[Y/N], you remember how to get back to the room?”

You’re in an unfamiliar section of the base, comprised of offices and meeting rooms, but you nod. You don’t need him to concern himself with you when he clearly has more important things to deal with.

“You know the room code?”

You nod again. He made sure you had it memorized ever since he began to take you out regularly.

With a final sigh, Reaper shakes his head. “Go back. I’ll come get you when the meeting’s over.”

You wait for him to leave, but he doesn’t budge. You flash another small smile before retracing your steps down the corridor. Reaper slips into the office behind Akande, and when the door closes you turn the corner and make your way back to the room.

Or, you do your best to get back to the room. You follow the same two hallways back towards the mess hall, and then you take another turn, and another, and suddenly you don’t recognize where you are, and all the halls look exactly the same.

“Shit,” you whisper. It sounds unbearably loud in the empty corridor. Your boots tap quietly against the floor as you retrace your steps, but you don’t find yourself back at the mess hall. You bite your lip, deciding to pick a direction and keep walking. You keep your right hand against the wall, reasoning that if you follow the same wall for long enough, you have to reach familiar territory eventually.

It’s kind of pleasant, actually, to wander the empty halls all on your own. You haven’t been alone in a long time, with the exception of being shut up in Reaper’s room. It’s nice to just be able to wander around something bigger than a bedroom.

Your technique works well enough, and after a little patience you stumble across the mess hall once more. This time you think you recognize the angle of the correct hallway, and you start down it. The floors are made of something glossy, and they shine in the light. There are a few scuff marks along the ground, and you wonder how often people are sprinting around the base, rushing to and fro. When something dark flickers at the edge of your vision, you look up reflexively.

Your stomach drops.

You’d been so lost in your own thoughts that you hadn’t noticed their scents, but now that they’re standing in front of you with matching leers, you curse yourself for missing the aggressive stench of the two alphas and one beta. They’re the men from the other day, and you surprise yourself by remembering their names. Reaper called the beta with the broken nose Hanson, and the alpha with the buzzcut and wild eyes Garavido. The grinning alpha with the ugly scar splitting the side of his face is Kowalski.

“That’s where that smell was coming from,” Kowalski leers. He and the others are leaning against the corridor walls, dressed in black clothing and heavy boots. You take a step back, and he grins. “Well that’s no fun. Grab ’em.”

You turn and bolt, but they’re bigger and stronger and faster, and they catch you before you get very far. Rough hands grab you, jerking you back painfully and slamming you against the wall. You gasp, the breath knocked out of you. Garavido shoves you sideways, and the three men close around you, trapping you against the wall. You’re breathing hard, panting more with fright than exertion. Your heart is racing and you can hear your pulse drumming against your ribs like a hummingbird’s frantic wings. You try to look past the men for anyone else, but the hall is empty. You wonder if anyone will hear if you scream.

“Come on, princess,” Kowalski sneers. “We just want a taste.”

“Let me go,” you demand. Your voice shakes just a little, and they laugh, leaning close as you shy back against the wall.

“You stupid omega bitch, you think you can just walk around here all on your own? You’re _asking_ for it.” Garavido grabs your arm, yanking you closer. You squeak, struggling. You try to pry his fingers off with your other hand, but his grip is iron.

You’re starting to panic. You can smell their intentions, dark and aggressive and cruel. You break.

“Please,” you beg. “Reaper will—”

“Reaper?” Kowalski interrupts. He leans in horribly close, and you cringe as he breathes in, running his tongue over his teeth. “I can barely smell him on you. And if he’s not going to use you, then he shouldn’t have a problem when the rest of us break you in for him.”

He grabs your face, and you squirm. He doesn’t release you, and Garavido strangles your wrists as Hanson looms closer on your other side…

Desperation takes over, and you lash out. You claw your free hand into Garavido’s, digging your nails in and scratching like a cat. At the same time you twist your face to put Kowalski’s hand in range of your mouth and _bite_.

Kowalski rips back with a holler, and it jerks your whole jaw painfully. He’s bleeding, or at least badly bruised from the pressure of your molars. You wrench on your arm, and you get two steps before Garavido recovers, his grip constricting as he hauls you back and slams you painfully into the wall. You cry out, and Kowalski punches you straight in the face.

The pain is an explosion of hot white stars and sharp stinging. Tears fall from your eyes as the force of the blow throbs pain through your cheek and eye and nose. He pulls back to throw another punch, and you cover your face with your free arm. Kowalski doesn’t seem to care, punching you once more, then again. Your arm throbs, and you cry out when his second blow hits you half in the face.

“Fucking _bitch_,” Kowalski snarls, shaking out his hand. “I guess you want it rough then, omega slut.”

You scream, praying that someone hears, someone cares enough to pop their head out of a door and help you. Garavido releases your arm and grabs a fistful of your hair, dragging you away from the wall. He flings you to the ground and you hit hard, smacking your shoulder and chin. You instantly try to scramble up, to run, but someone stomps down hard on your back and you collapse with a wheeze.

Pain burns in your back as your assailant digs in their heel, then kicks you in the side. You cry out, curling up tight to protect yourself. Fingers dig into your hair and you scream, thrashing and kicking against the floor as you’re dragged a few feet. You catch a glimpse of black and then a boot collides with your stomach. The pain is jarring, all sharp and aching, then nauseating. It’s different from the sharp agony of Hanson squatting down to punch you across the jaw.

You lunge forwards, blind from the pain. Your fingers gouge sightlessly for his face, and you make contact briefly, scratching and hitting for mere seconds before you’re sent sprawling by a hard kick to the ribs. Another boot hits you in the back, inches from your spine, lighting up an searing burn along your back. A kick catches you in the side of your face, and your jaw and mouth and cheek begin to throb numbly. You curl up tight, cradling your head and tasting blood. You can smell iron and the scent of your attackers, their glee and delight as a kick thuds through the back of your skull, and another slams brutally into the unprotected ridges of your lower spine—

A cry of pain rings out, and it takes you a moment to realize that it isn’t from you. The cry turns into a blood-curdling shriek as something _snaps _sickeningly. The kicks halts, and you hear the squeak of boots as your attackers pulls back sharply.

There’s a quiet shuffling, and Hansen starts to protest.

“Hey man, calm down, this isn’t—an omega isn’t worth—”

A gunshot splits the air, and someone shouts. You hear a scramble, the squeaking of shoes and more shouting, spat curses that fade as your attackers flee. You can’t bring yourself to uncurl, even as a shadow falls over you. You sniff, and you taste and smell blood. Beneath that, though…

“_I will fucking _kill_ them_.”

His voice is barely recognizable, so low and guttural and _furious_ that it’s become inhuman. Reaper’s hands are shaking with rage as he touches you, and you uncurl slowly, cracking and aching with every inch. When he sees your face, messy with pain and blood and tears, Reaper snarls.

He grabs you, sweeping you up into his arms. You’re limp with pain, but everything is a dull throb and you have too many sharp pangs of tenderness to care if his steps send soreness through you. You pass no one on the way to your room, and you aren’t surprised. With the absolutely feral fury that spills off of Reaper, his scent is a glaring warning. When he gets you back into the familiar comfort of your room, he carries you straight to the bed. You’re so grateful you could cry, and when he sets you down on the soft surface, you whimper.

Reaper slips away, returning with a wet cloth and a handful of tissues. You lie there, listless, letting him wipe the blood from your face. You weakly blow your nose when he pauses, and whine softly at the fresh burst of pain.

“Can you stand up?” Reaper asks. His voice is still rough with rage.

You let out a quiet moan, but you force yourself to your feet. You sway, and Reaper steadies you briefly before stripping off your shirt.

“_Ah_.” You gasp at the pain of lifting your arms. You drop back onto the bed, head spinning.

Reaper snarls, going rigid as he looks over the mess of red marks and darkening bruises littering your sides and stomach and back and ribs and arms…

“_I should have put that bullet between his eyes_.” His taloned fingers flex, almost shaking at his sides. Despite the waves of absolute fury rolling off him, thick enough to choke you, you aren’t the least bit afraid. You know with instinctive certainty that you’re in no danger from him. You sink back against the pillows, shivering.

Reaper flinches, fury breaking to let through a flash of concern. “You’re cold.”

“I’m—”

Before you can finish, Reaper has pulled off his cloak. He drapes it over you, and you push yourself up just enough to wrap yourself in it like a blanket. Your cheeks feel warm, and beneath the pain in your stomach, a little thrill flutters through you. You pull the cloak a little tighter. It smells like him, strong enough that it will probably leave his scent all over you. The thought is incendiary, and you almost forget about your injuries, until you twist to face him and your ribs howl.

“Is anything broken?” Reaper asks. He’s already given you a cursory look, but he picks up your arm and pulls aside the cloak to glance over your ribs.

“I don’t think so,” you admit. “It all hurts, but I think I’m in one piece.”

Reaper growls, gently placing your arm back down against the pillows. “What happened?”

You swallow. You can already sense his anger swelling again, but you can’t bear to lie to him. “I got lost,” you admit. “It took me a while to get back, and then when I turned a corner they were there. I… I think they could smell me coming.” You look down, embarrassed at the admission. Maybe if you’d been paying attention none of this would have happened. You can feel your right eye swelling, and your lip is split in two places. At least the bleeding has stopped.

“I tried to run but they grabbed me and cornered me. They were saying—”

“Saying?”

You can’t look Reaper in the face. Your ears are hot. “They said they were going to break me in.” You feel disgusting saying it. “They said—they said they could barely smell you on me and that you shouldn’t care if they…” You trail off, looking up sharply. Reaper is leaning close, his mask as blank as ever.

“They grabbed me and I fought back. I _tried_ to fight back.” You drop your gaze again. “Then they pushed me down and started kicking.”

A long, low growl shakes out of Reaper. He doesn’t move, and you can hear the vibrations of his vehemence in his chest. “That snivelling scum,” he snarls. “He said an omega wasn’t _worth_ it. Like you aren’t worth his pathetic life _ten times over_.” His anger explodes, and his hands snap into fists as he starts to shake with seething bloodlust. “No one does this to you and lives,” he barks. “You’re _mine_, and _no one_ does this to you!”

Your thoughts of calming him go out the window as you freeze with your fingertips brushing one tight, rigid fist.

“Yours?”

His hand relaxes, and his frenzy eases at your soft word and the ocean of tender, giddy happiness pouring off of you. He’s never called you his before. Of course you’re his; you’ve been _made_ to be his. But he’s never said it, and you could never have hoped for him to say it like that, to say it with such passion, such possessiveness…

Reaper sighs, reaching over to tug the cloak back up where it slipped off your shoulder. It’s heavy and warm, and even with the barrier you shudder at his touch. His claws skim against your shoulder, and then pause lightly against your throat. You wonder if he can feel the hum of your pulse.

“They could barely smell me on you, huh?” he mutters. He leans in, ducking down and pressing close and suddenly you can’t think can’t speak can’t breathe as he pulls you into to his chest and folds you tight against his body. His strong arms wrap around you, and you fit so perfectly against him that you can’t imagine there is anywhere else you could possibly belong. You can’t hear past the rush of blood in your ears as Reaper nuzzles your neck, breathing in your scent before pulling back far, far too soon.

“There,” he announces firmly. “Now they know what they’re messing with. And next time any idiot lays a damn _finger_ on you, it’ll be the last mistake they ever make.”

You barely process the threat, buzzing with the high of his touch. You can hardly feel your injuries as your skin tingles with a sun-soaked warmth. You feel dizzy. You open your mouth to beg him to touch you again, to plead for just one second more, one more moment in his arms, but he speaks before you can utter a word.

“Are you hungry?”

“H-hungry?”

“I need to do something or I’m going to hunt down those bastards and blow their brains out. How do you feel about pasta carbonara?”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warnings:
> 
> Depictions of harassment, abuse, Stockholm syndrome (not with Gabe). Caution if you're sensitive to this stuff.
> 
> Bastard! Maximillian (not based on his character, but I needed a Talon-associated villain. Sorry @ any Maximillian fans).

The air is filled with the savoury smell of hot noodles and cream sauce. You breathe in deeply, gripping the countertop between your knees. You’re perched atop the counter, lightly kicking your feet and waiting for Reaper to finish cooking. It’s mesmerizing, really. The way he moves. You mostly watch his back and shoulders as he shifts and cuts and stirs. He doesn’t speak, and aside from the sounds of boiling and chopping and steaming, it’s silent.

After convincing you to leave the room, Reaper had taken you to an unlocked room nearby. It held a small kitchen, complete with pots and pans and a decently-sized fridge.

“No one else ever uses it,” Reaper had explained. You didn’t bother to ask how often he came here; the fully-stocked fridge was answer enough.

“You like to cook?” you had asked him.

“It’s calming,” was his reply, gruff, like he was braced for you to mock him.

“That’s amazing,” you’d said instead.

You push the huge sleeves of Reaper’s cloak back up over your hands. He hadn’t asked for it back, and you hadn’t offered. It feels too nice wrapped around you, like a blanket of comfort, smelling of home.

“Here,” Reaper says, and then he’s pushing a plate of hot pasta into your hands.

It looks delicious, steaming lightly and enticing you with the mouth-watering scent of a carb-heavy midnight snack. You dig into it immediately, burning your mouth a little, but unable to stop once you’ve had a taste. You make a noise of pleasure, cheeks stuffed full. Reaper snorts, crossing his arms and leaning one hip against the counter across from you.

“Oh my god,” you mumble, mouth full. “This is so good.”

It’s impeccable. It’s fancier than you were expecting, with spices and flavours that combine perfectly. It tastes like a five-star meal, and you close your eyes to savour it. You can’t remember the last time you had something fancy, let alone something home cooked. Your eyes water at the thought, and with the combination of your aching body and burning split lip, you sniffle, shovelling in another mouthful.

“I’ve never had someone cry over my cooking before,” Reaper notes flatly, and you laugh, reaching up to swipe away the stray tears before scraping the plate clean. You think it might be bad form to lick it, and you reluctantly hold back.

“The last time I had pasta like this, my parents were still around.” You realize how that sounds a moment later, and laugh again, shaking your head. “This is really good. You’re a really good cook.”

Reaper stares at you for a moment, then his chin tucks in a little. “Hm.”

You’d expected the precious meal to be a one-time thing, a sort of apology for the fact that you got beat to shit by Kowalski and his henchmen. You’re reasonably surprised when Reaper wakes you with a plate of hot pancakes and thick syrup, complete with heavy dollops of whipped cream. You nearly burst into tears when you get lunch, and then dinner, and Reaper just mutters that the cafeteria food is shit and you need something better if you’re going to heal quickly. He fidgets a little and mutters something about how he doesn’t mind cooking, especially if you’re going to be so enthusiastic about it every time.

You think that maybe he’s right about his cooking helping you heal faster. In a matter of a week you feel significantly better, and even though your bruises linger and your black eye is still looking pretty rough, you have a feeling that the mess hall gruel wouldn’t be doing you any extra favours. It also helps that Reaper managed to find some clothes that fit you, so you no longer feel like an emaciated child in the ridiculously oversized shirt.

It’s late morning, some time just after Reaper got out of a meeting with Akande and the other agents, when Reaper gets a ping on his tablet. He checks it haphazardly, but then pauses, and you can feel the shift in his attention as he focuses and taps out a reply. You wait patiently for him to finish, and then pop up at his elbow.

“Something important?”

“Maximillian,” he explains. “He finally set up a meeting. Bastard, making me wait.” The last bit feels like compulsory gruffness, and you smile.

“How dare he. When is it?”

Another ping, and Reaper makes a noise in his throat.

“This afternoon. But…”

“But?”

His mask shifts to face you. It’s stopped being unnerving—instead, those dark, penetrating eyes feel like a familiar comfort. Piercing and shrewd and kind and cautious. Instead of answering you, he hands you his tablet. You glance down at the last message.

_Do bring the omega, I’d love to see it._

You blink up at Reaper. “I’m going with you?”

Reaper huffs. His boots thud a little heavier as he walks. “I guess.”

Your excitement stifles in your chest. “You don’t want me to come?” You bite your lip. “Is it because it’s not on base? And… are you worried I’m going to…” Off base. The realization hits you as you voice it. If you go with Reaper, this will be the first time you’ve been outside. The first time you’ve had any sort of chance to run, or call for help, or find a stranger and tell them you’ve been abducted. You suck in a sharp breath.

“I won’t run,” you promise him. And you won’t. Your stomach lurches violently at the realization. Even if Reaper opened the door and told you to go, you wouldn’t. You wouldn’t stray from his side. He’s your alpha, and he’s been kind to you. You have no reason to leave him.

Reaper snorts. “He called you _it_.”

You stare at him, trying to sort yourself out and remember what he’s talking about. Then, when you do, you laugh. “That’s all? O’Deorian called me that.” Her name tastes vile in your mouth.

Reaper sighs and shakes his head. “You don’t have to come if you don’t want to.”

You pick up on his hesitation, and you get the sense that if you refuse, the meeting might not go that well. “I’d like to,” you admit. “Unless you don’t want me to.”

Reaper growls, but he gives in. “It’ll be easier for me if you come. But I don’t—” His tone changes a little, and he sounds almost confused. “I don’t like the idea of you being around him.”

“I’ll behave,” you promise. You mean it to be teasing, but Reaper just looks at you and then looks away.

“If he makes you uncomfortable, tell me.”

The frown furrows your eyebrows, but before you can ask for clarification Reaper is catching your arm and tugging you out into the hangar.

By the time you’re on the jet, about to leave the base, your nerves have built up to an uncomfortable tension only relieved by fidgeting. You comb fingers through your hair, and fiddle with the hem of your comfortable black tee. You wonder if you should have put on sweatpants, and if the black tactical-looking pants make you look like you’re playing at being a soldier. Your legs jiggle, heels bouncing against floor of the jet. The black boots are comfortable, but they look far too tough for you.

“Calm down,” Reaper says.

You glance sideway and look down, forcing your feet to still. The nervous energy seems to swell without the outlet of movement, and when the jet whines louder as the engine powers up, your bite your lip until you break open the mostly-healed split.

Reaper reaches over from his seat beside you, and you startle when he grabs your hand. You watch him with wide eyes, but he just slides his fingers between yours and leaves his hand in your lap.

“What’s this for?” you ask, squeezing his hand tight. Your left leg has started to bounce again.

“You’ve never flown in one of these before, have you?”

You shake your head, and he doesn’t complain when the jet begins to roll forwards and you crush his hand in yours. You squeeze your eyes shut as the world begins to rumble, and then you feel a rush and the jet is humming and shaking and and suddenly there’s a _growl_ and a drop in your stomach and your whole body presses down like there’s a weight on your head—

And then the weight lifts, and you feel lighter. The jet is still growling loudly, but you open your eyes and look around, and it hasn’t ripped apart around you.

“Why is it so loud?” you ask.

“The engines were destroyed when it was stolen, so they had to be replaced with limited resources. This jet’s useless for stealth missions.”

You nod, relaxing, but you don’t let go of Reaper’s hand for the entire flight, not even when the jet descends and touches down with a gut-tripping bounce.

Reaper sweeps to his feet, pulling you up before releasing your hand. You miss the contact instantly, but you swallow down your disappointment and follow after him as he saunters down the jet’s extended ramp.

The air hits you first. It’s hot and sunny, bright and blinding atop the high landing pad. Elements of the building’s elaborate European façade and tiling glint in the light. You gasp in a breath, and then another. You haven’t tasted fresh air in _ages_. You can smell jasmine somewhere on the faint breeze. Jasmine and hot clay tiles and _fresh air_.

Reaper’s standing ahead, waiting for you, and you hurry to catch up.

“Okay?” he checks, and you nod, tucking your hand into the crook of his elbow.

“I haven’t been outside in a while,” you whisper. You wince when you smell the hint of pity that washes off of him.

You cling to Reaper’s arm, following him off the roof to a door leading down. You flinch when the door opens on a few burly guards in suits and sunglasses. Reaper hardly acknowledges them, just walks forwards and ignores the way they fall in around you, one man leading ahead. You press closer to Reaper’s side when one of the betas glances at you and curls their lip in a half-grimace.

Maximillian’s house is the size of a hotel. It might even be built in an old hotel, judging by the fancy foyers and the picture windows and carved stone columns. You pass by gold-framed paintings and jewel-tined vases on filigreed wooden pedestals. Your mouth is hanging open as you gape openly at the plush ornamental rugs and display cases of shiny, expensive-looking stone carvings.

One of the guards pushes open an ornate set of wooden doors, and a moment later he ducks back out to motion for you to follow. You practically strangle Reaper’s elbow, buzzing with nerves as you step into the room, flanked by the silent pack.

You notice the guards first. There are even more of them inside, posted to the walls like ornamental statues. Two of your entourage break away to take up posts on either side of the doors. The last one leads you forwards, then stops abruptly in front of a luxurious desk. He silently maneuvers around it, stepping up behind the chair at the desk. That’s when you notice the man sitting there.

He’s tall and slender, sitting with perfect posture. His hands are folded atop the table, and you notice the mismatch right away. One hand is gloved in black silk, while the other glints silver and bronze, an expertly-crafted mechanical hand. A shock of slick-backed black hair shines in the office light. Brighter than both, though, is the metal mask he wears. The mask is silvery, cut through with black on the lower half. It divides his unmoving mouth in two and traces up the edges of his lower jaw. Seven red, polished rubies are set into the mask, tracing out a symmetrical shape with the seventh stone in the centre of his forehead. The gems almost seem to glow in the light, and you press so hard into Reaper’s side that you can feel the warmth of his body beneath his armour and his cloak.

“Reaper, how wonderful to see you.” Maximilian’s voice is warm and friendly, and too smooth. Too cheerful. He oozes confidence. Arrogance. “Please, have a seat.”

Maximillian gestures towards a lush armchair in front of the desk. Reaper draws closer, but he pauses. He glances at you, and Maximillian reads his hesitation and laughs.

“Do sit so we can get on with our conversation. I assure you I won’t be offended if you’d rather have your omega in your lap than on the floor.”

Reaper stifles a growl, but he tugs his arm from your grip and drops heavily into the chair. He motions to the armrest of the chair, and you hurry to perch on the edge of it, jumpy with nerves. You can feel Maximillian’s gaze raking over you and it feels like insects are crawling beneath your skin.

Maximillian motions loosely, and you startle when a figure peels itself up from where it was kneeling on the floor beside Maximillian’s desk. Without a word from Maximillian, the delicate figure sweeps her way over to a cabinet, deftly producing two glasses and a bottle of whiskey. She pours the drinks, cradling the bottle to her chest as she sinks back to her knees beside the desk.

You’ve broken out in a cold sweat, and your face feels hot. You hadn’t noticed before, tuning out the mess of scents of betas and alphas, including Maximillian’s strong alpha scent, but the young woman is an omega. And, from her spot on the floor, she’s peering longingly at Maximillian as he picks up one glass and swirls the dark liquid around. You wait to see if he’ll move his mask to drink it, but he doesn’t bother.

“Well,” Maximillian begins, leaning back in his chair and cocking his head to the side. “To what do I owe this unexpected visit?”

Reaper’s claws drum against the other arm of the chair. The rhythmic sound is soothing, and you relax a little, leaning back against the chair and Reaper’s shoulder.

“Unexpected?” Reaper echoes emotionlessly. “I told you I wanted to know why you thought handling one of Moira’s omegas should be my responsibility.”

Ice shoots down your spine. You’d known that he had wanted to find out why. You’d known that he wanted to ask Maximillian why he was given such a burden, but for some reason you had thought… you had thought maybe he stopped seeing you like a task to complete. You straighten up, pulling away from his shoulder. Your stomach has gone cold, and you try to reign in the ache of disappointment and hurt before anyone notices. You look down, and the other omega glances at you, then quickly back up at her alpha.

Maximillian laughs, raising his glass in a toast. “I thought she explained it was a present.” You can hear the sleazy grin in his tone. “Before, when she was looking for another omega to practice on, I let her know that you would be a perfect recipient.” He nods, swirling his whiskey. “You’d done very well on those last missions. Commendably well. And I’m a firm believer that rewards and incentives work wonders on performance.”

Maximillian shifts, setting down his glass and lacing his fingers atop the desk as he leans forwards slightly. “Don’t tell me you’re not enjoying it. Perhaps Moira can replace this one with another…”

Dread. It strikes you like a hammer in the chest.

“They’re fine,” Reaper growls.

“Fine,” Maximillian repeats, and then he sighs and shakes his head, resting a finger against his temple. “Oh dear. I think I see the problem. You have unfortunately gotten the wrong idea about my generous gesture, and I see why. My friend, allow me to demonstrate the merits of one of these omegas.”

Maximillian snaps his fingers, and the omega springs up. She still holds the bottle of whiskey, clutched to her chest. Her eyes are wide and eager, and you can smell her desperate desire to please.

Maximillian cocks his head to the side. “Miriam, darling, put that thing away.”

“Of course sir,” she squeaks, hurrying to follow his orders. She returns with a bounce in her step, practically glowing with the thrill of pleasing her alpha. Maximillian beckons her closer, and she smiles, leaning in.

“Good. Now, how about you entertain our guests, hm?”

She hesitates, face reddening, but when Maximillian sighs, she rushes to appease him. She straightens up, blushing fiercely, and slides the straps of her dress off her shoulders. Reaper starts to growl, and Maximilian laughs, waving his hand.

“That’s good enough,” Maximillian says, waiting for Miriam to radiate joy before he crushes it. “I’m afraid you don’t suit the tastes of my guest. How disappointing.”

“I’m sorry si—”

“Don’t talk back to me.”

Miriam’s mouth snaps shut and she hangs her head, tears welling up in her eyes. Maximillian’s simple comments have reduced her to a mess, trembling and almost collapsing in despair.

“Omega,” he says, and she perks up instantly, desperate to make up for her shortcomings. “What would you say if I wanted you to offer yourself to my guest, hm?”

“Of course,” she says, like she’s begging him. “Anything you want, alpha.”

Maximillian glances to Reaper, and you can sense the cruel smile beneath his mask.

“That’s quite enough. You’re making a scene. Make yourself presentable.”

Miriam’s ears redden, shamefaced, and she tugs the straps back up onto her shoulders. Maximillian turns to her with his fingers steepled before him.

“Miriam, what do you most ardently wish for?”

“To please you, alpha.” The words spill out in a rush.

“Do you know what would please me right now?” he asks, looking to Reaper as if sharing a joke. “It would please me greatly if you would strike yourself.”

Miriam barely hesitates before reaching up and slapping herself across the face _hard_. You flinch. Miriam winces at the pain, but slap herself again, and then once more. Then she stops. It’s mechanical, practiced. Like it’s familiar.

“I’m satisfied,” Maximillian tells her, and Miriam nearly breaks down in sobs of gratitude. You can smell her joy, her utter, complete _joy_ at those words, even as a red mark forms on her face.

“Thank you,” she whimpers. “Thank you sir.”

Your hands are shaking.

“Enough,” Maximillian says. “You’re boring me.”

She crashes just like that, collapsing to her knees beside the desk and cracking down the middle. Her face contorts in pain and devastation, and you can hear your pulse in your ears.

“Be quiet and stay there,” Maximillian orders calmly, and Miriam freezes, kneeling beside the desk and going stiff. Desperate to please her alpha no matter the agony she goes through. Willing to do _anything_ to satisfy a direct order or request.

You feel sick. You feel sick, and it’s because you feel like you’re looking in a mirror. The way Miriam’s face lights up, the way it collapses in despair… you know the agony of your alpha’s disappointment, the sweeping elation of his approval. Thinking back, you can hardly remember any direct orders he’s ever given you. Occasional, rare, and certainly nothing that you wouldn’t want to do. You can’t ever remember him telling you to do something like humiliate yourself, or hurt yourself, but you know—you _know_—you wouldn’t refuse him. If anyone else told you to step in front of a car or jump off a bridge, you’d be horrified. But if _Reaper_ did… if your alpha told you to, then you would. Even now, fresh with horror at the realization, you wouldn’t deny him anything. You’d rather die than upset him.

“It’s an omega,” Maximillian announces smoothly, like your mind isn’t spinning off into pieces. “Use it to serve you and satisfy you. And besides,” he says, picking up his glass to swirl it once more, “these modified omegas can’t breed. So enjoy it. _Fully_.” He laughs, and you feel like someone has poured grease over you.

“I see you’ve already discovered some of their uses,” Maximillian adds, with a gesture at you, and it’s only when Reaper surges with the smell of anger that you realize he was indicating your fading black eye.

“Don’t worry, my friend,” Maximillian placates. “I’d never judge a little sadism. It’s a useful stress reliever, when other methods just aren’t enough.”

Reaper’s anger is like a fire, scorching your nose until you have to check to make sure it’s not bleeding.

Maximillian hums, then toasts his glass once more. “I’m afraid I’ve offended you. My apologies. But I know when it’s time to part ways, and I think by now you’ve realized exactly what I’ve given you.”

Reaper stands, and you scramble to follow. He’s seething, stiff and tense with anger, but he manages to reign it in enough to give Maximillian a stiff nod.

“Thank you for your time.”

“Of course,” Maximillian hums. “I hope you understand now why this is a wonderful gift.”

Reaper’s anger surges, but he manages to keep it under control. “Yes,” he grunts, and then turns and heads for the door. You hurry to catch him. His rage simmers as the guards guide you out of the room, and he walks with quick, harried strides. You struggle to keep up, unable to catch him arm like you so desperately want to. Your hands are shaking by the time you get back onto the rooftop, and Reaper stomps ahead of you up the ramp of the jet. You catch up and the ramp closes as the engines roar, enclosing you in the metal belly.

“Reaper…?”

He explodes, his anger surging into a raging fury as he whips around and slams a fist into the metal wall. You jump, and Reaper _snarls_.

“A fucking _gift_. That—”

His hands are shaking, claws flexing, and you swallow before stepping up and tucking your hand into his elbow. He whirls around with a hiss, anger flaring, and you close your eyes, bracing. You don’t realize you expected to be hit until you aren’t. You pry your eyes open, and Reaper is staring at you, chest heaving. His anger has given way to something else, and his voice is forcibly flat when he speaks.

“What was that?”

“What—?”

“Just now,” he snaps, turning to face you. “You were _afraid_.”

You feel wrong, and guilt sweeps over you. You feel like you’ve done something wrong, let him down somehow.

“I’m—”

“Don’t. Don’t apologize, just—sit. Sit down. We’re taking off soon.”

Reaper drops into his seat and you quickly follow, buckling in. He looks at you, then looks away, then looks back, but he won’t speak. You’re half afraid to, in case you say something wrong. Your chest feels empty, and you almost wish he had hit you, just so you could have a reason for the pain.

When the jet begins to move, you press hard back into your seat. You startle when Reaper reaches out, grabbing your hand. He won’t look at you, and he doesn’t say a word, but his fingers lace tightly with yours, and he doesn’t pull away for the entire flight, not until the jet lands and you’re forced to release him and unbuckle your belt.

You follow him back to your room in silence. The halls are empty, and you have a feeling it’s due to the barely restrained anger and frustration rolling off of Reaper. Only once the door shuts behind you does his anger collapse into frustration, and resentment, and bitterness.

You wait a moment before drawing up to him, gently touching his arm. “Reaper?”

He stiffens at your touch, but he doesn’t pull away. You shift closer, pressing against his side. Reaper growls, and he pulls free as he turns to face you fully. He takes a sharp step towards you, hands clenching at his sides.

“Are you even _capable_ of hating me?” he demands.

You blink at him, trying to process the question.

“I didn’t think she did _that much_ to you. I didn’t think….” He turns away sharply. “What he did to that omega— he _abused _her, and he was cruel, and she still _loved _him. Only some sick sort of alterations could make someone love such a—monster.” His voice breaks on the last word, and his shoulders fall. His head hangs. The energy leaves him in a rush, and he goes tired and quiet. “I hate how easy it is to hurt you.”

“Do you?” you whisper. He doesn’t flinch, and you inch closer, until he lets you touch his arm and turn him to face you. “I’m sorry I’m not stronger—”

“_Don’t_. Fuck. Don’t say that.” It’s the closest he’s ever sounded to frantic. He lifts one hand, claws glinting as he lightly traces a single finger over your temple, past your ear. “Monsters like us don’t get people like you unless we ruin them. Unless we rip into them and make sure they can’t run away.” His talons linger against your skull, then then he drops his hand.

You swallow, licking your lips. “That’s not true. It isn’t like that, Reaper. I—”

“You wouldn’t be here if you weren’t forced to stay.”

You frown, cutting him off when he tries to continue. “No, hold on. I would. If it weren’t for the fact that I was abducted, and that Talon is kind of an unsavoury organization, I wouldn’t have any reason to be upset about this. I mean,” you say, getting shy, “you’re nice to me. You’re nicer than a lot of people have ever been to me. _Don’t_ interrupt,” you demand, when he tries.

Reaper jumps a little, surprised at your aggression, but you grab two handfuls of his cloak to force him to look at you and not turn away.

“I mean it. You were worried when I got sick, and you made the effort to make me feel better. You cared when I got hurt by Kowalski and the others, and you’ve been making me food and I _know_ you never cooked this often before you started feeding me. You let me hang out with you on the base even when you’re busy, and you care that you could hurt me.”

Your chest is starting to feel tight with emotion, and you pull Reaper closer, forcing him to bend down. You want to tell him that you noticed his blind fury when Maximillian implied that Reaper was the one who hurt you. You want to tell him that you can’t forget the boiling rage that poured off of him, and how, unbelievably, it made you feel so, so safe. But the words stick in your throat, and you’re saying something else.

“You’re good to me. You’re kind to me, and you’re _good_, and you’re worried about hurting me and I—I—I’d care even if no one forced me to. I’d care because I know the difference between instinct and a choice, and I know that even though I didn’t have a choice about who O’Deorian picked for me, I’m glad it was you. You’re the only person here that I would have _chosen_.” You pull him down the last little bit it takes to press your forehead to his.

His mask is cool and hard, but it feels nice against your burning face. You scrunch your eyes shut and press your forehead to his, and you hear the little hitch in Reaper’s breathing as he stumbles and flinches and freezes. He doesn’t seem to know what to do, and you hold him there for a long, long moment before your fingers uncurl and release his cloak. You step back, looking up at him, but he still seems shocked stiff.

“It’s been a long day,” you say. “We should both rest. I’m going to wash up.” You walk away, and you barely make it to the bathroom before you collapse against the door with your heart hammering and your ears ringing. Your heart is going a million miles a minute, and your hands won’t stay steady. A part of you wants to blame it on your rash speech, or even the stress of the day, but you know neither of those would be true. You felt fierce and determined throughout all of it, until the moment when you pulled him close and heard his breath hitch. Your heartbeat kicked up a frenzy when you pressed your forehead to his, and somehow, something about it feels different. You feel flushed and giddy and nervous, but it isn’t because of anything he did or said to you. No, this time your stomach is flooding with butterflies at the idea of slipping aside his mask and touching his skin. Your pulse is racing at the memory of how his breath hitched, so very softly, and how many other ways you could coax that sound out of him. You feel unsteady because, despite everything, you can’t deny the truth of what you said. You know the difference between instinct and choice, and if you could choose someone to be shaped for, it would be him. If you could choose anyone in the world, it would be him.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warnings:
> 
> This one's a little heavier: Alcohol use, drugging, graphic violence, harassment and attempted assault (it doesn't quite get to that point, but I'm mentioning just to be safe). Angst, Hurt/comfort.

“Get up,” Reaper says, waking you up with a bundle of fabric to the face. You whine, rolling over to glare at him, and he jerks his chin towards the door. “Five minutes.”

“Where are we going?” you ask blearily, stumbling out of bed. You pick up the change of clothes and slip into the bathroom, reappearing in your allotted five minutes.

Reaper grunts, waiting for you to follow him out of the room and down three full hallways before he finally replies. “I’m teaching you how to defend yourself. I’ve been meaning to since you got your ass kicked by Kowalski and his goons.”

“Defend myself?” You stop in the doorway to the gym, and Reaper clicks his tongue in annoyance and ushers you through.

“Question,” you say, glancing around the room. “Do I get a gun?”

Reaper snorts, and you pout, following him over to the mats lining one corner of the gym. Nerves begin to flutter in your stomach as you realize that you’ve started to draw looks. Most of the other operatives are further away, but a few of them have stopped what they were doing to watch as Reaper sets his shotguns aside and turns to you.

“Alright, come at me.”

“Whoa, wait,” you backpedal. “That’s—okay, that’s a little too fast. Um.” Your hands flap uselessly as you attempt to settle your panic. “I have no idea what I’m doing.”

“That’s why we’re _here_,” Reaper huffs.

You can feel your face warming, and you try very hard not to look around the room. “People are watching.”

“Ignore them.”

“Super helpful,” you retort. “Why didn’t I think of that? Yeah, sure, let me just _ignore_—”

You don’t finish your sentence. Reaper cuts you off sharply as he lunges forwards, and you’re aware of his hands on you and then the world flips as your back hits the mat with a resounding _smack_. The breath wheezes out of you, and you blink dazedly up at the ceiling. Reaper looms into view.

“Get up and try again.”

Your nerves and mortification spike into something almost like anger, and you shove yourself upright, face burning. You hear someone snicker, and your hands curl into fists.

“Hit me,” Reaper orders.

“I can’t,” you whine.

“_Try_.”

Burning, you throw a sloppy punch. Reaper catches your wrist, tugging you off balance. You stumble with a yelp, but he doesn’t pull you over. Instead he steadies you and gestures to your feet with his free hand.

“Feet apart. Put your right foot back a bit. Again.”

You comply, and when you punch, Reaper catches your wrist. This time when he pulls, your torso leans but you feel steadier. You don’t sway, and you pull against him reflexively, digging your weight into your back foot.

“Better,” he says, and pushes your arm down a little. “Throw from the hip, not the shoulder. And hit with this.” Two claws tap against your index and middle knuckle.

“How do I throw from the hip?” you demand.

“Try.”

You growl, and you can’t help but feel like a kitten playing at being threatening. You throw a few more punches before Reaper makes you switch hands. He keeps telling you to throw from the hip, but he finally relents and says that you’re passable.

He steps up and suddenly you’re yelping, dragged into a headlock. It feels tight, his arm against your windpipe. His grip is solid, and you squirm a little to no avail. He releases you, and then begins to instruct you on how to break out of three separate types of headlocks. He doesn’t leave it until you’re whiny and tired. Only then does he grab your wrist and continue on to show you how to twist and pull to break that kind of grip. By the end of it you have red marks on your wrist from some failed attempts, but you can semi-reliably free yourself from Reaper’s iron hold.

Despite your whining, you’re unreasonably proud of yourself for actually learning a couple things. Especially how to break free from someone grabbing your arm. You’re tired, though, and Reaper gives you a once-over before motioning for you to follow him back for lunch.

During the next week, Reaper drills you daily. The sessions are short, an hour at most, but he’s demanding and he gets stricter about giving you his approval. Even so, he usually ends the training by admitting that you’re getting better, and you positively glow.

It’s during one training session, midway through Reaper showing you how to shatter a kneecap with a backwards kick, when Sombra sidles into the room. You haven’t really seen her since your first day on the base, and you only notice her when she bounces up with a laugh after watching for who knows how long.

“Ooh, did Akande already brief you?” Sombra asks with a pout. “I though I was the first to know.”

Reaper straightens up, letting you catch your breath as he cocks his head at Sombra. “What?”

“About the mission?” Sombra’s mouth makes a little ‘o’ when Reaper doesn’t reply. “I thought that was why you were training them.” She gestures to you, and you feel your stomach flip just as Reaper bristles.

“What are you talking about?”

Sombra holds up her hands. “Go talk to Akande about it. I thought he already told you.”

“Why does this involve [Y/N]?”

Sombra backs out, pausing by the door. “We’re running a strike on Flint, and we need your omega friend as bait.”

“Desmond Flint? The trafficker?”

Sombra nods, and Reaper snarls.

“Like hell.”

“Talk to Akande!” she chirps, dipping out the door before Reaper can bite her head off.

Reaper is angry, and you know then and there your session is over. You follow him back to the room, where he drops you off before storming off to meet with Akande. You have a bad feeling about it, and you aren’t entirely surprised when Reaper storms back in almost an hour later, muttering under his breath.

“How’d it go?” you ask, and he crosses his arms, pissy.

“They want to use you as bait.”

“You said he was a trafficker?”

Reaper nods, and then with a sigh, he elaborates. “He’s involved in running a trafficking ring, mostly omegas, but he’s taken some betas. He’s also involved with an omnic insurgence group, and Talon wants his contacts. We also want him eliminated. He’s been a problem for years, and he’s a runner.”

You swallow. “Any why do they want me involved?”

Reaper growls. “Flint’s heavily guarded in public. Every party he hosts is full of his agents, and the only time he’s ever alone is when he’s taking an omega into his secured private rooms.” Reaper shifts uncomfortably. “The plan is to get an omega decoy to get him alone and slip him a drug that’ll knock him out while we storm the place and take out the guards before the decoy lets us into the secured rooms.”

“Oh,” you whisper. “That’s… complicated.”

“Not as complicated as some of the stuff we’ve done,” he admits. He shakes his head, shoulders hunching. “We talked it over and we don’t have any better ideas. Akande and Widowmaker wanted to use you, but I told them to find another omega.”

“No,” you interrupt. “I’ll do it.”

Reaper startles, but you set your jaw. You think of Miriam, or any other poor person being abducted and forced into this. It’s sickening. Unbearable. Your rage against the trafficker is enough to solidify your resolve, and you raise your chin.

“This man is a monster. And I’m not letting anyone else be forced into this if I can help it.”

“It’s _dangerous_,” Reaper spits.

“You’ll protect me.”

He stops, then shakes his head in frustration. “You’d be _alone_ with him. I won’t allow that.”

“It’s not your choice,” you fire back, staring him down. Your heart squeezes uncomfortably, but you refuse to back down. “I’m not letting someone like Miriam be forced to do this. At least I have a little self-defence training—”

“You think you’re anywhere near capable of protecting yourself right now?” Reaper barks. “You think you’re skilled enough to fight off someone twice your size who has experience with hurting people just like you?”

“Of course not! But you can teach me a little more. You can help me learn how to protect myself, which is more than some other omega will have! I’m not debating this with you,” you snap. “This Flint guy is a monster, and I’m not letting him hurt anyone else if there’s something I can do to stop it.”

“Don’t try to be a hero,” Reaper growls. “It’ll get you killed.”

“I’m not trying to be a hero,” you tell him. “I’m trying to protect people if I have the chance. Even if I can help just one person, that makes it worth it.”

“I used to think that way,” he mutters, leaning close. He gestures to himself with a hiss of disgust. “Look at me. Is this what you want?”

“I don’t see anything wrong with that,” you bite out. “You’re not changing my mind. If you won’t help me then I understand. But you’re not changing my mind.” It hurts to say it, and you feel all sorts of sick. A terrible tension is beginning to build in your chest, and you feel like you’re getting dangerously close to crying. But you’re not about to stand back and let someone else be forced into this in your place.

Reaper swears, twice, and then he shakes his head, paces the room, and grabs your arm. “Come on. If you’re insistent on being part of this stupid mission, then you’re learning how to shoot a gun.”

\--

You don’t just learn how to shoot a gun. You learn how to load, unload, and fire a handful of different types of weapons. Reaper stands at your shoulder, making sure you can at least hit the target reliably with each one. After the shooting range, he moves you back to the training mats in the gym.

Akande was pleased with your decision to participate in the mission, and Reaper stewed over it for three of the ten days you had to prepare. He spent the first two in a bitter silence, training you with gruff comments and snappish mutters. When you started to sniffle at one particularly harsh comment, though, he softened considerably, squeezing your shoulder and mumbling an apology.

It’s during the increasingly physical training sessions that you start to take notice of Reaper’s body. You had always been aware of him, some instinct keeping track of his place in a room or his presence at your back, but this is different. When Reaper pulls you into a headlock, you spend a moment noticing the firm bulge of his biceps wrapped around you. When he drops you to the ground and pins you down against the mats, you can’t seem to focus on anything other than his thighs. And then you aren’t just noticing them anymore.

When Reaper flips you onto your back and holds you down, you can’t help but focus on his breathing and remember pressing your forehead to the cool surface of his mask. When he pins you on your front, heat light up in your gut and burns into your face as you imagine him leaning further down over you and pushing his hips down against yours. When he pins you up against the wall with one hand, you go lightheaded, and it isn’t from asphyxiation. You’re flushed and stuttery, and your face always feels hot, especially when you have to wriggle against him, fighting against his body to break free from increasingly complex holds or maneuvers.

The one thing you really can’t help noticing is his scent. Whenever you train, he gets this determined, almost protective aura about him. That, couple with the hint of sweat from training, drives you crazy. One or twice after a tiring session you found yourself pinned beneath him on the mats, pulse going crazy, body aching to arch up against his and pull him closer. You had excused yourself to splash cold water on your face. It hadn’t helped.

What also doesn’t help is the change in his attitude. When his frustration over your stubbornness finally fades, the compliments start. At first they’re simple, a “well done” when you throw a halfway decent punch, a “good job” when you break his grip with a move he taught you. They make you flush, giddy with pleasure, but they’re only distracting for a moment before you regain focus and move on to the next task at hand. That’s fine, perfectly fine—but then the touches start.

Reaper doesn’t seem to notice he’s doing it, skimming his fingers over your arm while he tells you your form has improved. He seems almost unconscious of it when he places his hand on your hip to adjust your balance and hums a quiet “perfect”. The worst thing, though, is the way he’s started to _laugh_. The first time was when you were growing frustrated with your inability to pull your arm from his grip, and you’d finally wrenched away with enough force to punch yourself square in the nose. Reaper burst out laughing, the first time you’d ever heard it, and even as your eyes prickled with tears from the sting, your mouth fell open.

His laugh is like a miracle. It’s low and deep, but strong. It’s something that seems to vibrate in his chest, startled and delighted and genuine, with no hint of malice. He was quick to stifle it and cover it with a cough, but you’d been so shaken that you hadn’t been able to function for the next _hour_.

You made it your mission to draw more laughter from him. The second time he laughed was when you pulled off a perfect sideways kick, only to step back and trip over your own shoelaces, falling hard on your ass and looking up at him with what must have been the most suspicious look in the world as you searched around for what tripped you. You forgot the pain in your tailbone the moment he began to laugh. That fast, you were senseless, _intoxicated_. Hearing him laugh is like sunshine in your chest. _Making_ him laugh is a high that you doubt heroin could reach. You live for the rare, precious moments where he lets you glimpse happiness for a change as his scent turns sweet with cinnamon and sugar.

When the last day before the mission rolls around, Reaper hands you a small knife and has you practice aiming on him. It makes you wildly uncomfortable, and it feels so _wrong_ to aim a blade anywhere near him, but you swallow down the instinctive resistance and pay close attention as you halt your movements before making contact.

“I’d like you to have some sort of weapon, but…” He shakes his head. “You should only carry a weapon into a fight if you can make _sure _your opponent won’t get it away from you. Don’t ever give your enemy another weapon at their disposal.”

“I’m resourceful,” you placate him. “I’m sure if things go badly, I’ll figure something out. And besides, you’ll be close by.”

“Not close enough,” he mutters, and proceeds to point out every organ you should aim for with attacks. He instructs you in the art of kicks and punches to the kidneys or throat or sternum, and he even teaches you proper technique for eye gouging. “Don’t punch in the face. It won’t stop someone, just make them angry. Go for organs and soft spots.”

Reaper drills you until the last minute, making you recite a list of the best places to go for in a fight while you walk through the hangar to the freshly-painted ORCA jet. It’s the one in the best condition, its engines running in near silence as you join the others hanging around it.

You bristle at the familiar and unwelcome sight of Moira, but Reaper had prepared you for it. Still, you can’t stop the aggressive hatred from becoming obvious. Reaper sighs, but he doesn’t tell you off, and you’re grateful. The sight of the mad doctor isn’t helping your nerves.

You recognize the others gathered around. Fully armed and in tactical gear are Akande, Widowmaker, and Sombra. Sombra waves at you with a grin, and you force yourself to nod politely. You only just appreciate how realize you are when you remember that you’ll have to work with the others as well as Reaper. You glance up at the cloaked man beside you, and his hand shifts to your lower back, a calming pressure.

“Shall we go?”

Reaper nods at Akande, and you make to follow the others into the jet, nerves spiking. Reaper holds you back for a moment, studying your face.

“You’re nervous,” he observes.

You wince, wishing you could hide it, but he can probably smell the jittering anxiety under your skin. You nod, but do your best to sound tough. “It’ll be fine. Everything will be fine.”

Reaper hesitates, then he hands you a small, leather stick. It’s only a few inches long, and you turn it over with a frown. Reaper pulls it open for you, and you realize that it’s a slender, two-inch blade with a serrated edge. You slide it back into its sheath and it clicks softly shut.

“It’s not much, but it’ll do some damage, and it’s easy to conceal.” He seems worried, and you laugh, tucking the weapon into your pocket.

“Thanks.” You step in, wrapping your arms around him. He stiffens, but you just hug him until he relaxes and places one hand on your back. Then you flash him a smile and pull back, letting him lead the way up the ramp.

Reaper sits beside you, letting you take his hand when the jet begins to move. You notice the way the others are staring at your hands, with an array of bewildered amusement, and for a moment you think you should let go, in case their stares will bother Reaper. You loosen your hand, but Reaper tightens his grip, stopping you from pulling away. He isn’t looking at you, but your heart goes all warm and fluttery, and you have to fight to keep a stupid smile off of your face.

“Nearing the drop point,” Sombra eventually announces, and Reaper turns to you.

“You remember what you have to do?”

You pat your side, where a small packet is hidden in an inner pocket of your jacket. You feel fancy in the comfortable, silky clothes, but you miss your heavy combat boots that have been replaced by simpler black shin-highs.

“Find Flint, get him alone in his secured room, drug him. Then open the doors. Thirty minute window after I leave with Flint.”

“_Dios mio_, they’ll be _fine_,” Sombra complains.

The others are all dressed in fancy clothes over their armour, all except for Reaper. He isn’t planning to be seen until the kickoff. Reaper turns to glare at Sombra.

“Keep an eye on them.”

“I’m supposed to be scouting for Flint’s bodyguards,” she reminds him.

Reaper growls.

“I know what I have to do,” you remind him. “Thirty minute window. The drugs last for twenty five minutes.”

“Then we aren’t we going in after twenty?” Reaper demands.

“It will probably take twenty minutes for [Y/N] to get in and slip him the drugs,” Sombra sighs. “We’ve been over this. Stop worrying.”

You fold your hands in your lap, praying that Reaper doesn’t notice them shaking. It turns out not to matter if he sees or not, because he sniffs the air and leans closer, lowering his voice so only you can hear.

“You’ll be okay. We’ll be watching.”

You nod.

“If anything goes wrong, run.”

“It won’t,” you whisper back. It isn’t what’s coming that scares you. You know that Sombra has hacked an electronic invite for you, and once you get in all you need to do is find a seat at the bar until Flint picks up on your scent. It’s the rest of it that scares you. You should flirt, be coy and seductive, but you don’t know how you’ll be able to manage. They told you just to go along with him, but you can’t help worrying that things will go wrong somehow.

“We’re here,” Sombra announces, and you clutch Reaper’s hand as the jet descends. You allow yourself one moment of wild, frantic terror before reigning it in. The others are starting to look at you with concern, ranging from Reaper’s worry about your fear to the others’ worry that you’ll break and ruin everything. You suck in a breath and steel yourself.

The ramp drops, and everyone gets to their feet.

“Well,” Akande announces. “I suppose I’m first.”

Sombra hands him a slender device glowing with a QR code. She winks. “Have fun in there! See you in a bit.”

Akande walks off, and you glance around. Widowmaker and Reaper are supposed to stay outside until the kickoff, when Reaper will enter with guns blazing, and the others will start shooting from their posts inside. Widowmaker’s job is to snipe anyone fleeing. The sheer death toll shocked you at first, but when Reaper explained they were all someone involved with trafficking, usually bringing in poor omegas in exchange for some cash, your pity faded.

“He’s in,” Sombra announces, pointing to her earpiece.

“We can all hear him,” Moira tells her.

Sombra glances at you and sighs, rolling her eyes. Your cheeks warm as you realize the announcement was for your benefit. You’re the only one without an earpiece, since you’ll be far too close to Flint to get away with one, and the signal wouldn’t get past his secured quarters anyways. You’ll have to rely on luck and timing.

“Moira, go.”

Moira clicks her tongue but takes her hacked invitation and leaves. Your body is starting to buzz with adrenaline. Reaper wraps his fingers around your arm and leans down to bring his face close to yours.

“Remember what I told you. Eyes, kidneys, throat… do what you need to.”

“I’ll be fine,” you reassure him, yet again. “Thirty minutes.”

“[Y/N],” Sombra pipes up. “Moira’s in. Your turn.”

Your fingers shake a little as you take the invitation from her.

“I’ll be right behind you,” she promises, and you nod.

You glance back at Reaper one last time before taking a deep breath and leaving the ship. The jet is parked in a lot between some buildings, and you recall the directions, walking straight down the rightmost alleyway until it opens onto a street lit with neon and glittering glass from broken bottles in the street. You spot the building instantly. It’s huge, set up like a casino but lacking any sort of sign aside from a stylized neon lotus.

You cross the street, mustering up your best attempt at a calm expression as you produce your invitation for one of the bouncers at the door. The bouncers swap glances before even looking at your invite, but the one before you clears his throat, scanning it and motioning you in. You suspect that glance was because they know that most of the omegas that enter the place don’t tend to leave.

You walk down a short, dark hall, listening to the voices behind you as a few more people trickle inside. The music begins to thump through the air, and you do your best not to stumble or hesitate when you enter the main room. It’s huge, with a massive domed ceiling and two upper balconies forming semicircles overhead. The room glitters with lights and glass, glasses of flowers, glasses of champagne and whiskey and cocktails, empty glasses on tables or held in people’s hands, racks of gleaming glass bottles behind the massive twin bars on the left and right sides of the room.

You stride into the room, beelining for the bar, reciting the steps in your head. Sit down, order a drink, and wait. Sit down, order, wait. Sit, order—

You perch atop a shiny black barstool, resting your elbows on the polished black bar. Your mouth is dry, tongue sticking. The bass of the music masks your pulse, and you’re grateful for it.

Within seconds, a bartender is in front of you. He looks you over quickly, and then his face shifts slightly, just like the bouncers. He suddenly doesn’t make eye contact as he asks what he can get you.

“Just—something light.”

He shakes his head. “Omega?”

Your heart drops, and you nod slowly. He can smell it, anyways. No use in lying.

“You’ll want something a little stronger,” he tells you, and before you can object, he’s mixing something with liqueurs and syrup, pouring it into a glass and dropping in a maraschino. He turns away and leaves before you can thank him.

You twirl the glass by its stem, trying to fight the suspicion. You watched him pour it, and it didn’t seem like he added anythnig strange. All of the mixes he used were from the racks at the back. Still, you take only a single, tiny sip, miming drinking while you wait and watch. You notice most of the same bottles get used for other drinks, until there are only one or two that haven’t been touched. It’s been a while and you don’t feel off, so you try another tiny sip, just to keep up the guise. If your drink isn’t disappearing, it might raise suspicion. You take care to subtly spill a little on the floor in tiny increments when you don’t think anyone is looking.

As soon as your glass is empty, another bartender sweeps in. He also reacts oddly, his smile stiffening and then his eyes shifting off yours when he catches your scent. You order champagne, and he pours it for you before slipping off once more.

You glance towards the balconies, idly scanning them as you hide your expression behind a sip of champagne. You catch a flash of bright pink, and you see Sombra leaning against the rail. She winks at you, and you face the bar again before you seem suspicious. You feel a lot better knowing that she’s here, and the champagne calms your nerves a little. You stop drinking when your head starts to feel a little fuzzy.

That’s when you start to hear it. You aren’t eavesdropping, but you clearly hear someone off to the side whisper “omega”. It catches your attention, and now that you’re listening, you hear it again, someone else muttering something about “an omega”. You feel a shiver working its way down your spine, and the fear starts to come back as it travels around. You suddenly feel terribly exposed, and you clutch your glass tight as a figure in your peripheral begins to move towards you. Your nerves spike, and even your best efforts can’t stop a subtle anxiety from humming in your veins.

The man sits down beside you, and you glance up. He snaps his fingers and a bartender is there, pouring him a drink without any words. The man sips his amber beverage, turning to face you.

He’s not a small man; his shoulders are broad and his hands are large. His eyes are gray, wrinkled at the corners. His mouth is lined at the sides, and you estimate he’s at least fifty.

He raises his glass at you and smiles. “I don’t believe I’ve seen you before.” He snaps his fingers, and with hardly a gesture from him, the bartender is refilling your glass before you can protest.

“I—” You freeze. You freeze, and your mind races as you realize that this isn’t going to work. You know you’re a jumble of nerves, and anyone in the vicinity must be able to smell it. Acting smooth is only going to raise suspicion when your scent is clearly showing your anxiety. You swallow, bite you lip, and decide to take the risk of changing the script. You look up at the man, seen earlier on the profile Sombra gave you. You do your best to look meek and nonthreatening and a little shaken.

“I—no, I haven’t been here before. My friend brought me, but I don’t know where he went…” You glance around the room, searching, and it’s all to easy to fit on a mask of dismay and desperation.

“Ah, so that’s where the alpha scent came from,” the man purrs. He leans in closer, sniffing you. “How unfortunately that your friend has abandoned you. Something as delectable as you shouldn’t be out here on your own, you know.” He frowns, all concern as he motions to your glass. “Go ahead and finish that, lovely. I’ll make sure to keep you safe in the meantime.”

You make yourself take a few sips, and it quickly becomes clear that he intends to make sure you drink every last drop. You do, and the man smiles, finally breaking his gaze from your glass. Your head is buzzing a little, but the alcohol has dulled your nerves. Perhaps its for the best that you don’t reek of anxiety when you’re pretending to trust him.

The man waves over the bartender, and your glass is quickly refilled.

“I didn’t get your name, sweetheart.”

“Oh,” you say, wide-eyed puppydog expression on your face. You introduce yourself with the fake name on the invite, and the man reaches over, stroking a hand down your arm and cradling your elbow. You fight the urge to shudder and pull away.

“A lovely name. I’m Desmond Flint.”

You gasp, looking him over once more. You feel a little dizzy with the movement, and you blink a couple times to clear your head. “Oh! It’s _your_ party!” You make the effort to relax your shoulders and giggle. “My friend said he wanted me to meet you.”

“Did he?” Flint purrs. “I’ll have to thank your friend. We just might have to forgive his rudeness, since he has allowed us to meet.” A wink, and Flint guides you up from your seat with the hand on your elbow. You allow him to maneuver you, even when he puts his other hand on your lower back, half-embracing you as he walks you along.

“I’ll take you somewhere quieter, and we’ll have your friend sent up to meet us there.” Flint leans closer, and you can smell him like day-old sweat and cigarettes and pond scum. It’s repulsive, and you fight the urge to gag and rip his hands off you.

“Careful,” Flint hums, squeezing your hip. “Better sip that drink down so it doesn’t spill.”

You comply reluctantly. Refusal won’t help you. You take two sips, and then, when the crowd tightens little, you trip yourself. You yelp, lurching, and the liquid sloshes out of your glass. Flint’s hands tighten on you, digging in like you’re prey trying to flee. You straighten, giggling as drunkenly as you can.

“Sorry, sorry. Whoops.”

Flint smiles, and his eyes go hungry as he guides you through the crowd and towards the heavily guarded door at the far wall, beneath the balcony.

“Don’t worry lovely. We’ll get you another drink.”

He says it flippantly, and you think he may believe you’re thoroughly smashed. You do your best to help that impression by staggering a little. You’re faintly dizzy, so it’s not terribly hard to waver and let Flint guide you to the door.

The guards step aside, and Flint swipes a card. The doors open and he pushes you through, his hand sliding a little lower down your back. The door shuts, and you glance behind you for a handle. There’s nothing to twist, but there’s another small screen, identical to the one Flint scanned the card on outside. You barely have a second to look before Flint sweeps you forwards.

“Don’t worry pet, no one will bother us here.”

_Thirty minutes_, you remind yourself. _Thirty minutes to pull this off._

Flint leads you into an extravagant room carpeted in fine rugs. A central coffee table is surrounded by plush leather sofas. You spy a full bar on one side of the room, and on the other, an extravagant four-poster bed complete with a golden velvet canopy veiling the interior.

“Sit down, pet,” Flint says, and he half-pushes your unresisting body down onto the sofa. You sit a little lopsided on purpose, heartbeat thundering as Flint walks over to the bar. He pulls out some glasses, and you watch his back as he pours wine. From this angle, you can’t see if he’s putting anything in your drink, and you try to stifle your panic.

You saw him slip his access card into his breast pocket. If worst comes to worst you could stab him and run for it, but you won’t be able to manage that if you’re drugged. Flint returns, and all you can smell is his stifling reek as he sits beside you, practically snuggling into you as he gives you a glass and rests his hand on your thigh.

You start screaming inside your head. You fight against the revulsion with every fibre of your being. You want to bite his hand off. You want to break his fingers and tear his face off for touching you like that. He’s not your alpha, and he _doesn’t_ get to put his hands on you like—

“A toast,” Flint says, raising his glass. “To chance encounters.”

You ping your glass against his, and you watch the hungry look in his eyes. His glass rests against his lip, like he’s waiting. Waiting to see you drink. You smile, and tip your own glass, swallowing a mouthful. He grins, the smile spreading slowly over his face, and he takes a deep gulp.

“You know,” Flint says, his hand sliding a little up your thigh. He squeezes, leaning closer, and now you can smell the putrid lust wafting off him. “A sweet little omega like yourself should not be all alone in a place like this. Unsavoury things tend to happen to vulnerable pups like you.” He catches your chin, and you know what you have to do.

You swallow back the need to gut yourself and lean in to him, pouting. “I didn’t mean to. You’ll protect me though, right?” You peer up at him through your lashes. You’re starting to feel a little dizzy. “An alpha like you?”

You wish you could rip out your tongue for speaking those words to anyone but Reaper. Even lying, saying it to someone besides your alpha makes you feel foul.

Flint chuckles, hand sliding higher up your thigh. He’s reeking of lust, and he’s practically undressing you with his eyes. “Oh, you have no idea what I have in store for you, my little pet.”

You giggle, fanning yourself with one hand. You feel hot, but it’s strange. Your skin is too warm, almost feverish. You straighten up and your vision drags, almost blurry at the edges. You have one last chance. One last chance to do something stupid and risky, or have things go to hell anyways. You peer at Flint, who has nearly finished his wine, and lift your glass. You throw back the entire thing, smiling up at him, and Flint growls happily.

“We need something to celebrate. Not boring old wine. I know how to make something special.” Your words are slurring slightly, but Flint doesn’t seem bothered as he drains his glass and lazily hands it to you.

“I assure you, you’ll get a taste for wine soon enough. But I do like an omega that knows how to serve.”

You get up, and nearly fall over. The room slides, and you suck in a breath. You feel too hot, and hazy, and you try not to panic.

“Oh no,” you whine. “I’m too drunk.”

Flint laughs, knowing full well that it isn’t the alcohol that has you stumbling. You do your best to play dumb as you barely make it to the bar. Your head is spinning, and you fumble, but you manage to pour a half-glass of something concentrated. You add syrups, pouring a stronger version of a basic sugary cocktail. You slip your hand into your hidden pocket, but you’re having trouble getting your fingers to work right.

You laugh, glancing back at Flint. He’s a blur, and it takes you too long to focus. You feel sweat beading on your skin, and you turn back to the glasses.

“I’m sorry, I’m spilling.”

“Don’t worry pet, you’ll learn.”

You try to open the package once, then again, and on the third try you manage to slide out one of the little white pills. You drop it into the drink, but you’re so dizzy you can’t tell if it’s dissolving. You look closely, squinting, but both drinks look the same. You pick them up, and it takes every last bit of your focus to avoid tripping and dumping the drinks all over the floor. It takes you a long time to reach the couch, and you somehow hand Flint his drink before collapsing. Your glass sloshes, but you raise it too him.

“Cheers.”

You’re slurring your words, and you’re starting to have trouble thinking straight. You’re feverish, and your tongue feels heavy. Your fingers are stiff.

Flinch clinks your glass, and you force yourself to take a sip as he swallows. And drains the glass. With one movement he drains it, making a face.

“Yes, we’ll have to break you of that nasty habit. You’ll learn what my preferences are soon enough.”

Your hand is weak, and you set down your glass on the table. You have to focus on breathing, in and out, in and out. You can’t seem to get enough oxygen.

“You have terrible taste,” Flint says, but his words are slower. Heavier. He shakes his head, frowning. “Perhaps I’ll let one of my associates break you in. After I’ve had my fill, of course.” He reaches for you, hand fumbling. His coordination is going, and he shakes his head again. The drug must be acting fast, because he grabs the back of the couch and tries to stand, but collapses back against the cushions.

“What—?” he slurs. “You… what did you…?” He reaches for you, but you manage to scramble out of his reach, tripping off the couch and collapsing to the floor. The room spins, and your head feels thick and hazy. Sounds are starting to go muted, and you hear a thud as you crawl a few yards away from the couch, towards the corner, and stick your fingers down your throat.

The booze, couple with the drugs and your panic, make it all too easy. You vomit, holding your hair back with one clumsy hand as you puke up onto the Persian carpet. You spit, clearing your mouth, and then you force yourself to vomit again, and again, until all that comes up is acid. Your stomach hurts, and your body is shaking and twitching with illness and the drugs. You shuffle a little ways away from the vomit, curling up on your side as the room spins and spins and spins.

Time unhinges as you reel from the effects of the drugs. It takes both minutes and hours for the dizziness to pass as you lie there, cheek pressed into the carpet. The world spins and blurs, and you shake with feverishness, your body useless and unresponsive as you hover on the very edge of unconsciousness, dipping back and forth. Finally, finally, your vision begins to steady. The world stops spinning, and then the blurriness fades. Your limbs are jerky, but you can move, and you manage to haul yourself to your feet.

Your mouth tastes foul, but not terribly stale. You couldn’t have been down for too long. You have a feeling that puking up as much as you did may have made all the difference.

You stagger towards a side door, fumbling to open it. You nearly cry with relief when it opens on a bathroom, and you turn on the sink, rinsing your mouth thoroughly before gulping down as much water as you can. Your stomach feels sick, but with the water in you, things seem to settle back into focus a little more.

You leave the bathroom, and now you have the presence of mind to see Flint, slumped on the floor between the sofa and the coffee table. His glass is on the floor.

You fight the urge to kick him, or spit on him, as you crouch down and push his head back. He’s still breathing, but he’s out cold. You frisk him as much as you can manage, relieving him of the access card, as well as a small wad of hundred-dollar bills. You tuck both into your pockets, straightening up.

Flint’s unconscious. Now you have to open the door.

You retrace your steps down the mini hall to the massive, tightly-shut doors secured with a complicated mechanism of intricate gears and bars. You’re about to swipe the card when you hear something from the other side of the door. Muffled gunfire. So quiet you wouldn’t know what it was if you weren’t half expecting to hear it.

The fight is supposed to be over by the time you open the door.

You shrink back, returning to the room. You’ll give it a minute before you go back. You want to keep an eye on Flint, just in case.

You pace the room nervously, hands behind your back. Flint doesn’t stir, and you’re counting to sixty when you hear a tiny, tiny muffled sound. It’s so quiet you wouldn’t notice if it weren’t for the complete silence of the room. You stop. The sound comes again, weak and muffled, from the direction of the four-poster.

You pull out the knife Reaper gave you, brandishing the blade as you inch closer to the velvet canopy. You stand as far back as you can, fingertips pinching the heavy fabric. You count to three, bracing yourself to stab at anything that rushes you, and you yank the cloth back.

You nearly drop your knife at the sight that awaits you. The scent hits you a second later, and you stumble a step back. There’s a young man sitting there, only a little younger than you. His wide brown eyes are filled with tears, and tearstains mark his cheeks all the way down to the gag stuffed in his mouth. He’s bound tightly, tied to a bed post in rough ropes. His hair is messy, and his skin is angry and red from struggling against his bonds. And he’s an omega.

He whimpers, eyes wide and frantic. Your hand shakes as you reach for him, taking hold of the cloth gag. It’s tied so tight you have no hope of anything but cutting it, and you grab the gag, bringing the serrated edge of your little knife to it.

“Hold still.”

The boy doesn’t move as you saw through the cloth. He just closes his eyes and whimpers, fresh tears falling. You cut through the gag, pulling it from his mouth, and he coughs, gags, spits, looks up at you with wide eyes.

“Who are you? How… how are you here? Is he coming back?”

He’s terrified, his scent stifling you with fear and gratitude and more terror.

“My name’s [Y/N],” you say, as you turn to the boy’s ropes. You saw through them, quick but careful. Your arm burns with the effort, but you don’t stop. You free his hands and the boy rubs his wrists, pulling the loose ropes off his arms.

“I’m Roan.”

You free his ankles and pull back, glancing over the room. You don’t see any sign of movement, and you duck back to grab Roan’s arm. He whimpers as you pull him to his feet, but he lets you drag him across the room before he digs in his heels.

“The exit’s this way,” he says, pointing down the hall. “There’s no other way out.”

“I know. It’s dangerous out there right now.” You pull on his arm, and he relents, letting you bundle him towards the bathroom. His eyes are wide and frightened, and you give his arm a reassuring squeeze. “Stay in here and lock the door, okay? I’ll come get you when it’s safe.”

“Wait,” he begs, “don’t go. Don’t leave me here, what if he comes back—!”

“I’m not leaving,” you promise him. “I’ll get you out of here when it’s safe.” You grab him, looking him in the eyes. “I’ll come back for you. Stay here, lock the door, and wait for me.” You pull away, and Roan whimpers, but he closes the door between you. You wait to hear it lock, and then you turn and sprint across the room. You press your ear to the heavy mechanical door, listening for one moment, two. You hear a muffled bang. Two more reply.

There’s still shooting going on. You’re starting to panic again, fear settling into your bones. You keep glancing over your shoulder, half afraid the room will disappear. You can’t smell Roan’s fear anymore, but you can’t forget the terror in his eyes. You grit your teeth, and you _know _there’s no way you’re leaving him. Even if this building starts to go down in flames, you’re going to come back for him.

The noises outside slow, and then peter off. Just when you think it’s safe, another pop, like the residual kernels when making popcorn. You startle, and wait, and wait, and wait…

You don’t hear any more bangs, and you hold your breath, counting to ten and swiping the access card. The door whirs to life, the cogs spinning and bars shifting, twisting, until the door unlocks and swings outward, the two-foot-thick slabs of metal opening like butterfly wings.

A brief moment passes, and then something rushes towards you. The dark shadow reforms into a person right in front of you, and Reaper grabs you by the shoulders, face twitching up and down as he looks you over from head to toe.

“Are you hurt?”

You shake your head. You’ll explain what happened later.

“You smell like another alpha,” Reaper growls. “What happened?”

Sombra sidles up, and the others gather.

“Get out of the way, you’re blocking the door.”

You pull free from Reaper’s grip, retreating back into the room. Reaper growls and strides past you, entering the room first. He looks around, from the dishevelled bed with cut ropes, to the vomit on the floor. He starts to snarl, anger rising, but you walk past him.

“Flint is over—”

You stop halfway to the couch, immediately retreating to the wall. Flint is awake, dragging himself upright woozily. He clutches the couch, eyes going wide when he sees the pack of Talon agents. His eyes flicker to you, surprised, and then _furious_.

“You omega _bitch_—”

He doesn’t get further than that, because Reaper is across the room in a second, hauling Flint up straight and slamming a metallic fist into his nose hard enough to hear it crunch. Flint cries out, and Reaper punches him again, and _again_, snarling the whole time. He’s enraged, ready to kill Flint, ready to eviscerate him and hurt him and _tear him to pieces_—

Reaper yanks Flint away from the couch, slamming him hard against the wall. His skull bounces off the drywall, and he splutters, spitting blood that drips from his nose and mangled cheek. Reaper hauls back and punches him again, hitting hard and brutal and savage. Animalistic. He’s an animal, the way he beats Flint into a pulp.

You watch with wide eyes, and you know you should be horrified at the display of violence. You should be quaking with fear and revulsion. But your chest is warming, and all you can think is that rage is because of _you_. That brutal, furious, vengeful _hatred_ is because Flint dared to lay a hand on you. He hurt you, and your alpha is going crazy over it.

It takes both Akande and Sombra to drag Reaper off Flint, and they both look shocked. _All_ of them look shocked, even Widowmaker and Moira, who stand by the door. Like they’ve never seen Reaper lose it like that.

Reaper shakes off Akande and Sombra, but he doesn’t go back to beating Flint, although he’s rigid and still exuding rage and loathing.

Flint wheezes, blood bubbling from his ruined face.

“Desmond Flint,” Akande greets him, adjusting his suit jacket. “We have been looking for you for a long time.”

Flint groans, wiping blood from his mouth with the corner of his sleeve. He slumps against he wall, eyes wide and flitting around the room.

“You’re Talon. I know, I know, I can—you’re here for money? Omegas? I can—I can get you either. Anything.” He swallows, wiping his face again. He’s sweating, cowering, and the sight makes you viciously pleased.

“We’re more interested in your contacts with the omnic insurgence.”

“Contacts?” Flint scoffs. “I just organize events. They pay me in products for organizing their evens and giving them a place to meet. I can give you their names, it’s all in my phone. Anything you want.”

“Products?” Akande questions, and Flint glances to you, then back to Akande.

Reaper growls like a wolf.

“If you want contacts, I can provide that,” Flint says, calming as he straightens up and brushing off his jacket. “But I’m a businessman. I work in trade. I can give you my contacts, in exchange for my life.”

Akande considers him, then smiles. “I am also a businessman. I see no need to end a fruitful partnership so early on.”

Your face starts to tingle. You think the blood may have just drained from it. You attempt to speak up, to ask if you heard wrong, if they’re _insane_, but Flint smiles and relaxes and Akande nods at him.

“My phone is behind the bar. I’ll go get it.”

Akande steps back and motions for Flint to go ahead. Reaper doesn’t move, and Flint walks past him with his head high. You retreat a few steps, getting some distance as you back into the corner.

“One indispensable rule of business, I think, is to always make sure your assets are protected.” Flint reaches behind the bar, and his mouth curls in a smile. “And I couldn’t help but notice none of you appear armed.” With that he spins around, yanking a gun out from under the counter, and firing at the closest target.

Flint shoots Reaper, dead in the chest. He shoots him again, and again, and he turns the gun on Akande, who throws himself behind the couch. Sombra flings herself behind another couch, and Widowmaker and Moira rush back into the hall but you hardly notice because Flint just _shot Reaper three times in the chest_ and Reaper has thudded back against the wall and slid to the ground with a wheeze and there’s a thick streak of blood where he slid down the wall and you can’t breathe you can’t breathe you can’t _breathe_—

And the air goes cold. The air goes cold, and you feel your heart beating slow and steady, and Reaper’s been shot and Flint—

_Flint_—

The rage engulfs you. It consumes you like an inferno, like nothing you’ve ever felt before, and you’re blinded, your skin is crackling with it, and your eyes are hot and your _chest_ and your blood must have evaporated or turned to solid flame because you feel electric and brutal and vicious. Flint sprays more bullets into the couch before he turns back to Reaper, struggle up but slipping in the blood pooling on the floor. Flint laughs, wild and sick and twisted, and he points his gun at Reaper’s head—

You’re behind him, picking up the bottle of wine Flint used to drug you earlier. You bring it down hard against the bar, and you feel the satisfying contact, hear the shatter and splash of red wine bleeding out everywhere. Flint starts to turn, but he’s moving slow. Everything is moving slow, as his gun loses aim on Reaper, as you wrap an arm around Flint’s neck and latch onto his back and stab the broken end of the wine bottle into Flints neck _over _and _over_ and _over_ and _over_—

Flint’s screams turn to gurgles, blood spraying from the gashes in his throat. Your hand is slippery, but you don’t release the broken bottle, not until Flint collapses against the bar, then slumps to the ground, his neck ragged and his eyes dead and glazed.

You drop the bottle, and it thumps against the ground. He’s dead. Flint is dead. A distant part of you recognizes that you should feel bad, but you don’t. You don’t feel bad at all. He hurt you, and he hurt so many others, and he hurt Reaper.

_Reaper_.

You fling yourself to your knees beside him, where he’s sitting against the wall, one hand pressed to his chest. You gasp, hands stuttering in the air. There’s so much blood, so much. It streaks the wall and the floor, staining his talons red and soaking his black armour.

You wail, frantically pressing your hands over the bullet wounds on his chest.

“No, no, no no no,” you babble, heart ripping in half. There’s _so much blood_. “No, no, no.”

Reaper tries to speak, coughing. He hunches over, coughing blood, and when he straightens, crimson drips from the beak of his mask.

The tears well in your eyes, spilling down your cheeks as you keen, wail, sob. Reaper catches one of your hands, holding it tight in his bloody talons, and you break. You collapse, clutching his hands and curling over yourself, and you _scream_. You scream with all the agony in your chest, face wet with tears. Reaper chokes again, coughing, and you bury your face in his shoulder and scream again, angry, _agonized_. The sound that comes out of you is tortured. It feels that way, as you cling to Reaper, your heart ripping in half, your alpha dying in your arms.

Reaper pulls his hand from yours, and he grabs you, clumsily pulling you against him. He hisses in pain, but his arms are strong, and he holds you _tight_, pinning you to his body with the strength that a dying man shouldn’t have.

“Calm _down_,” he rasps wetly. He coughs again, hacking up blood. “Calm down, I’m _fine_.” His voice is rough and gruff, but it isn’t weak, and it’s enough to bring you back to your senses. You tremble in his arm, hands shaking as you pull back to look at him. There’s blood everywhere, and you can see where the bullets pierced his armour. You touch one of the spots, splaying your hand against his chest.

“I’m fine,” he repeats, sitting up straighter. He shifts you in his lap, holding you at arm’s length. “This is nothing. Calm down.” He seems to be stronger already, his voice evening out back to normal.

You pull away from him, slumping back against the wall and pressing the backs of your hands to your eyes. You suck in a few long breaths, and then you drop your hands, get to your feet, and kick Reaper in the thigh. He hisses and flinches, startled, but you snarl at him, simmering with residual anguish and fear and anger and pain and everything is just too much and this has just been _too much_.

“Are we done here?” you snap.

The others are all standing there staring at you. They look kind of shell-shocked. Reaper grunts, getting up behind you. You ignore him, staring at the others and hiking an eyebrow.

Akande clears his throat. “We need his phone.”

“I’ll search the body,” Widowmaker offers, picking her way over the broken glass to rifle through Flint’s pockets.

Akande goes to search around the bed, and Sombra ducks behind the bar. Moira starts towards the bathroom, and you bolt for the door, wedging yourself between it and her.

“Get the _fuck away from here_,” you snarl, and you must sound unhinged enough for her to raise her hands and back away with raised brows. You relax, slumping against the door. You slide to the ground, bringing your knees up to your chest and wrapping your arms around them. There’s blood all over one of your arms, and you do your best to wipe it off on the rug and your pants.

The room is chaotic with the sounds of searching, and amidst the chatter and movement, Reaper walks over to crouch down in front of you. He reaches out, and with one claw he lifts a strand of hair off your forehead and tucks it behind your ear.

“Are you hurt?”

You shake your head. “I’ll live.” Your voice is rough and scratchy from screaming.

Reaper reaches for your chin, gently tipping it up. He studies your face and sighs, then leans down, the forehead of his mask bumping against yours. Your breath hitches at the unexpected contact, but Reaper doesn’t move. He just crouches there, resting his forehead against yours for a long, lingering moment before he eventually pulls back to look at you. He’s still holding your chin, and you’ve gone all soft against his grip, practically resting your chin in his hand.

“You did very well,” he tells you. The praise washes over you differently than before. This time it doesn’t light up your chest; it settles in your bones, deep and comforting, lingering beyond a brief flash of elation. You relax and wipe away tearstains with your clean hand.

“You’re really okay?” you ask.

“I’m not… ordinary,” Reaper admits. “I heal faster than most people. Three shots to the chest fucking _hurts_, and I think one punctured a lung, but I heal fast.” He pauses. “But I don’t think I would have recovered fast enough to react before he shot me again.” His claws shift to cradle your cheek, and his tone is soft, tender. “You did well. You did everything right. And you saved me from a bullet to the head.” A pause. “This might sound fucked up, given the circumstances, but I’m proud of you.”

Your ease into his touch, resting your hand overtop his. “I though he’d killed you.”

“Thanks to you, he didn’t get the chance.”

“I don’t feel bad,” you tell him. “About killing him. I don’t feel bad.” You look down at your hands. “Does that make me…”

“No. That man was a monster.” His thumb skims your cheek. “He deserved what he got, and if you didn’t do it, I would have. I’d have ripped his heart out for laying a hand on you.”

There’s something raw about the way he cradles your face. He doesn’t seem in any hurry to pull away, and you close your eyes. Now that the terror has settled and drained away, you just feel tired. Tired, but safe. You feel so safe with Reaper here, holding you so tenderly. You remember the horror you felt when you thought he was dying. The shuddering heartbreak. And now you can’t imagine leaving his side. You can’t imagine ever letting him out of your sight again. You couldn’t bear to lose him.

“Reaper,” you whisper. “I—”

“Found it!”

You both look over to see Sombra triumphantly brandishing the phone.

“It has the data we’re after,” she adds, and Akande straightens up.

“Well then, I guess we’re done here.”

Reaper stands, helping you to your feet, and you tug on his arm.

“The rest of the building…?”

“It’s clear of hostiles,” he reports, and you nod. Everyone starts for the door, but you turn around and knock on the bathroom door.

“Roan? It’s me. It’s safe to come out now.”

The others have paused, watching you with confusion, but you ignore it as the door cracks open and Roan peers out. When he sees you, he opens it fully. He’s wide-eyed, still terrified but less panicky.

“I heard gunshots and screaming,” he says.

“It’s okay,” you soothe. “Flint’s dead.”

Roan’s eyes harden, and he swallows. “Where is he?”

You point out the body, and Roan stumbles over. He stares down at Flint’s corpse for a moment before making a face and spitting on it. He kicks the lifeless ribs and then scampers back to your side and throws his arms around you.

“Thank you.”

You return the hug, squeezing him tight. He’s shaky, but he seems to settle after a moment. You pull back, turning to face the others, who are staring in shock.

Moira raises an eyebrow. “Is he an omega?”

You bristle, and all your rage pours back into vicious protectiveness. “Stay away from him, you psychotic bitch. If you go anywhere near him, I will tear your lungs out and make you _eat_ them.”

Even Moira looks startled at your venom. She looks to Reaper, who just grunts.

“Leave them be.”

Moira sighs, rolling her eyes. “Honestly.”

You keep Roan behind you as you follow the others out of the building. The other room is littered with corpses and broken glass, but you don’t pay it any mind. You’re relieved to leave the Lotus behind and slips back down the alley to the waiting jet.

Before you board, you pull Roan off to the side.

“Do you have anywhere to go? Friends to stay with?”

Roan hesitates, then nods. “Yeah. Yes. I have somewhere to go.”

“Somewhere safe?”

He nods again, and you relax. “Be careful. Do you need a ride there?”

He glances at the jet, and shakes his head. “I don’t want to get mixed up in that, please. I can get to them. Once I’m there I’ll be fine.”

“Here.” Reaper steps up behind you, shoving a slip of paper towards Roan. “Buy a burner phone and contact this number if you need help, or once you’re safe.” He glances to you. “[Y/N] will worry if they don’t hear from you.”

You feel faint with relief. Roan brightens, tucking away the paper into a pocket of his stained sweats. He’s shoeless, in only a tee and sweatpants, and you feel a pang.

“Take this,” you demand, shrugging off the jacket. He tries to protest, but you shake your head and make him put it on. “There.” You rifle through the pockets, taking out the drugs, knife, and money. You hand Reaper the drugs, and show Roan how the knife works before tucking the weapon and money back into his pockets.

“How—how much is that?” he asks, gaping at the wad of cash before you tuck it away.

“No idea. I took it off Flint.” You straighten the jacket, zipping it up. “Make sure you get to your friends safely. Use money if you can, use the knife as a backup.”

He nods, and you bend down, tugging off your boots.

“[Y/N],” Reaper groans, exasperated.

“I’m not leaving him to walk around the streets _barefoot_. We’re going straight home and I have shoes there.” You turn to Roan, handing him the boots firmly. He sniffles, tugging them on.

“We need to go,” Reaper warns, and you nod.

“Be safe,” you tell Roan.

He flings his arms around you, sobbing into your shoulder. You squeeze him back tightly, holding him until Reaper growls impatiently. You pull back and he wipes his eyes, sniffling, smiling.

“Thank you. For everything. I—I won’t forget this.”

“Just be safe,” you tell him, and he nods, pulling up the hood of the jacket to block the night breeze. You follow Reaper up the ramp, glancing back one last time, catching a final glimpse of Roan before the ramp closes and the jet lifts off.

“You’d have given him the shirt off your back if he didn’t already have one,” Reaper mutters.

“What’s wrong with that?” you demand. “I didn’t need those things. The knife I would have wanted, since you gave it to me, but I think he needs it more right now.”

“I’ll get you a new one,” Reaper sighs, and you brighten.

“Really?”

He grunts, and you smile. You reach out, touching his arm and speaking quietly so the others down hear.

“Thank you. For giving him a way to reach us.”

“You’d worry otherwise,” he mutters.

You smile, reaching for his hand. He grumbles, but he lets you pull his hand into your lap, and he laces his fingers with yours, giving your hand a gentle squeeze. You lean your head against his shoulder, closing your eyes and breathing in his sweet, familiar scent.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Notes:
> 
> Blindfolds.  
;)
> 
> *Note: It has come to my attention that I had somehow deleted the tag for Afab reader that I thought was in the tags. Just want to make sure that’s clarified for this chapter!

You trudge back to your room, clinging to Reaper’s arm to keep yourself upright. You’re tired, _exhausted_, and your body aches. You nearly collapse in bed the second you step into the room, but you force yourself to hold back. You’re still covered in blood, and you’re gross. You groan, dragging yourself to the bathroom to wash up. You nearly slip in the shower, and you yawn so much that you get a mouthful of water by the time you finish the shower, drying off and changing into a clean pair of sweats and a loose, oversized tee. You crawl into bed with a soft groan, snuggling into the pillows. Your body feels so heavy, and the clean, cool sheets and blankets are heavenly.

You grunt for Reaper, patting the bed beside you. He laughs a little, but he shakes his head.

“I’m going to shower. I’ll join you in a minute.”

You roll over, stretching out with a contented little sigh. You try to stay awake, but you can hear the muffled sounds of the running shower, and the rhythmic drumming lulls you to sleep before you can fight it.

_You’re back in the Lotus, watching gears spin and shift before your eyes. The cogs turn and turn, endlessly moving. You turn away from the door, dropping down on the couch. Your hands begin to feel wet, and you look down. Where your fingers press against the supple scarlet leather, blood bubbles out and bathes your hand. All around you, the couch seeps blood, until you’re soaked in it._

_You pull away, wincing, putting some distance between you. Broken glass crunches beneath your feet, drawing a glittering trail behind the bar. The couch drips into the carpet, the bloodstain spreading out towards you. You back up until you bump the bar. You reach for the solid surface behind you, but your hand touches something else. A mirror. When you lift it you don’t see your face; you see the looming visage of Desmond Flint behind you, a moment before he plunges a shard of broken glass into your chest._

_You whirl around, tripping, but you don’t see Flint standing there. Instead, slumped behind the bar on a bed of blood and broken glass, lies Reaper. He’s unmoving, facedown, with one arm limply draped across the ground. His mask lays a few feet away, cracked in half and stained with blood. You cry out, rushing over to him, but you know before you even touch him that he’s—_

You jolt awake, panting, panicked, and Reaper is there in an instant, catching and steadying you as you half-sit before your shaking arms give out.

“[Y/N]—?”

You shake your head, breathing in Reaper’s scent. You close your eyes, feeling his arms around you and reminding yourself that this is real, this is real, you’re fine. You reach for him, clinging limply as you swallow and wait for your racing pulse to settle.

“Nightmare,” you croak.

“About…?”

“What happened earlier. Flint and—and everything.” You wipe some sweat from your brow and the back of your neck.

Reaper hums, cradling you closer. His chin brushes against your hair, and one hand rubs your back. “…Do you want to talk about it?”

You shake your head a little. “It wasn’t anything that actually happened.” You attempt a small laugh. “If I’m being honest, I think what actually happened was worse.” The image of Reaper lying on broken glass flashes through your mind, and your chest seizes. “Most of it, anyway.”

“What did happen?” he asks you quietly.

You droop, growing drowsy quickly with his warm, steady arms around you. “He kept trying to get me to drink. He took me back to his rooms when he thought I was really drunk, and then he gave me something.” You yawn. “After that I managed to—”

“What, _what_? He _gave_ you—he _drugged you_?” Reaper has gone rigid.

You place a hand on his chest to calm him as you snuggle closer into his embrace. “Mmhm. I figured he probably put something in the drink, but I didn’t really have much choice. I managed to slip him the drug right after, and he passed out before I did, which was lucky. I threw up what I could, and I managed to stay conscious. There was still fighting going on outside, and that’s when I found Roan tied up and gagged. Then I let you guys in.” Your eyes close, and you breathe in the smell of Reaper’s worry and anger and protectiveness. You smile, nuzzling his chest. “Don’t worry. I’m okay.”

Reaper growls quietly, but he doesn’t speak, just pulls you a little closer and holds you tightly until you fall asleep once more.

\--

You wake in in Reaper’s arms. It not something you’re used to; usually he’s up before you, and you only find yourself beneath his arm if you wake up during the night. Your back is to his chest, and you’re pressed flush against his body. You can feel the barest brush of his mask against your hair. Reaper’s arm is wrapped around your waist, keeping you close. His cloak is draped over your leg.

You fight the urge to squeal aloud in delight. Sure, you’d been sleeping together before, but never quite so close. There had always been space between your bodies, and you can’t seem to get past the sensation of his body pressed against yours. Your face feels warm. You’re giddy, embarrassingly, but you can’t help it as you bite your lip and fight the grin breaking over your reddening face. You feel so warm, and your stomach thrills at the contact.

Reaper shifts and lets out a quiet huff. His arm squeezes around your middle and he nudges the back of your head with his masked face. “I know you’re awake.”

You laugh, chastised. “I can’t have a minute before getting up?”

“Mm. _You _can have a minute but _I _need to go. I need to meet the others for a debriefing of the mission.” He pulls away and you whine, rolling over to face him. Reaper snorts, flicking your arm with his claws.

“Don’t I need to come?”

“No. You rest. I’ll make you something to eat after the debriefing.”

You rest your chin on your hands, watching Reaper as he sweeps to his feet and gets his guns from the table. Somehow his clothes have been patched and washed, and you wrinkle your nose. He must have slipped away last night and then come back.

“Teach me how to cook,” you say, and Reaper pauses. You tilt your head. “Show me how to cook breakfast. I might as well help you make something and learn how to do it myself.”

He hums and nods. “Don’t cause any trouble while I’m gone and maybe I will.”

You laugh, flopping back into bed as Reaper leaves. You feel lazy today, and you snuggle back under the soft covers, contemplating just spending the whole day in bed. It’s perfect here, soft and warm and cozy, and better yet, it smells strongly of Reaper. You nuzzle his pillow, resting on your stomach and drinking in the traces of his scent. You really could spend the whole day here, curled up and cozy. Your skin is comfortably warm, and you wrap your arms around Reaper’s pillow. You lie there, basking in the wonderful warmth of your alpha’s scent until Reaper returns and gives you an odd look.

“Still sleeping?”

“Just snuggling,” you tell him.

He shakes his head. “Did you want to come to the kitchen, or should I just bring you back something?”

“I wanna come.” You groan as you force yourself to leave the bed behind. You waver a little, steadying yourself and grabbing a change of clothes. Reaper waits as you change, and you peel off your shirt, pausing to press the back of your hand to your stomach. Your skin feels a little warm. Hopefully you didn’t cocoon yourself enough to get heatstroke.

You scamper out of the bathroom, bumping into Reaper. You laugh, ducking under his arm and tossing your sleepwear onto the foot of the bed. You take hold of his arm and follow him out into the hall.

“So what are we making?”

“What do you want to eat?” he returns.

“Pancakes.” You’re hungrier than you realized, and the though of heavy, carb-filled food makes your mouth water. “Pancakes with chocolate and bacon and eggs.”

Reaper pauses, but only shrugs one shoulder as he drops you off at the counter and pulls open the fridge. “We can do that.”

You help gather up ingredients, but you aren’t the most useful sous-chef. You get distracted by the smell of frying bacon, and your stomach growls. Reaper pushes you to the side, giving you a bowl to stir before he takes over.

You perch on the nearest countertop, watching Reaper’s hands as he works. The eggs and bacon sizzle, filling the air with a savory, mouth-watering scent. You ache to sink your teeth into them, and you grow hot with impatience as the delectable smell of cooking batter and chocolate joins the mix. You squirm, antsy, but Reaper doesn’t notice you until he turns to reach for the cream. You sat on the near counter, which means most of the ingredient are behind you. Reaper doesn’t complain, even though he has to reach past you. You duck down so he can lean over you and grab for the cream. His cloak falls down around you a little, and his chest presses close and—

Something inside you stutters. It feels like the blood jumps in your veins. Your stomach swoops, and you catch a whiff of Reaper’s deep, familiar musk. It lasts a brief second, his proximity, but when he pulls back and returns to the stove, you can’t think straight. You feel shaken, and the steam off the stove is too hot. You hop off the counter, wandering a few steps away and fanning your face with one hand. You feel so warm, and the hunger is ever stronger.

A minute later, Reaper slides you a plate piled high with pancakes and eggs and bacon. You scarf it down, and the taste of it has you closing your eyes and sighing in contentment. You eat until your stomach is so full you feel a little lethargic. You eat until the though of taking another bite makes you nauseous. And then, finally, you start to put two and two together. Despite the food, you still feel _hungry_. Now, with your stomach full, you realize it isn’t merely the craving for food. The frustrated urge to sate your desire is still strong, and you feel just a little too warm, and you’re starting to notice the way the air touches the back of your neck, or the brush of your clothes against your skin.

You look to Reaper with wide eyes, but he doesn’t seem to have noticed.

“Full?”

You nod, letting him take away your dishes. His claws brush your hands, and a thrill of hunger goes through you. Your veins are starting to buzz a little, and you drag a hand through your hair, pushing it off your forehead. You want to get back to the room _now_, but Reaper drops the dishes into the sink to clean them and you nearly whine.

You lean against the counter, too hot and beginning to tremble. You can pick out Reaper’s smell from the remnants of breakfast. You can pick out the mouth-watering spice, the intoxicating woodsmoke. He smells irresistible.

You thump your head against the counter. Not now. Not now.

Reaper shoots you a look and you force a smile. He turns back to the sink, and standing is suddenly kind of difficult. The heat builds beneath your skin, washing over your body and beginning to pool in your gut. You bite your lip, and you can’t—you can’t—

You can’t pull your mind away from Reaper. His broad shoulders and large frame. The strength of his body, the way he held you close, pressed you to him. You so desperately want his body against yours. You want to drown in his scent. He’s hypnotic, mind-numbing, intoxicating, _irresistible_. Your body is getting weaker by the second, until you can barely hold back from throwing yourself at him. Even halfway across the room, he’s turning you into an inferno. His rich alpha scent is igniting the fire inside you, and you’re starting to pant a little as the heat of desire builds.

You squirm, whimpering softly. Reaper pauses once more, glancing back to you, and then he stops. He sets aside the dish in his hands and turns to face you fully, concerned.

“[Y/N]?”

You shake your head, clutching the counter for support.

Reaper’s scent flickers with concern as he walks towards you, and when he reaches you, you almost collapse. His scent is so unbearably strong. You are so unbearably _desperate_ for him. The heat inside you drips through your core, and all you want, _all you want_ is for your alpha to strip you bare, pin you down, and fuck you until you can’t think.

Reaper hisses, grabbing your arm. “Your scent… you’re—”

“Reaper,” you whine.

“Shit,” he mutters, reaching for you. “Hold on. Let’s get you back to the room.” He picks you up, and arousal twitches to life inside you. Reaper carries you, and you’re absolutely _immersed_ in his scent. You’re dizzy with him, aching for him.

Reaper carries you into your room, setting you down on the end of the bed. He begins to back away but you grab his cloak, pulling him back to you.

“Don’t go.” Even to you, you sound wrecked. Your voice is rough with arousal, slightly breathy as you burn alive.

Reaper grunts, bracing his hands on either side of you to make sure you don’t pull him down any closer. “You’re in heat.”

“Yes,” you breathe. You can’t see his lips but you can’t stop imagining them. You long to push aside his mask and drag him down to you, but you’re afraid if you let go of his cloak, he’ll leave.

“[_Y/N_],” he rasps, and you shudder. His voice is low, rough at the edges. His scent is heady, a little earthy. Irresistible. His elbows relax just a little, and he’s no longer pulling away as you slide one hand up his chest and tug on his shoulder.

“Reaper, _please_.”

He growls, but you pull him down a fraction. He’s tense, his body tight as a spring, but he lets you draw him just a little bit closer. You part your knees, closing them on either side of his hips. You pull him in, moaning softly at the shift of his hips between your legs. You must be going crazy. You want him closer, want his skin against yours, those _hips_ against yours—

Reaper give in abruptly. He falls on you, hands curling against your body as he drops down and hefts your hips up to his. You fall onto your back, crying out and squeezing your thighs against his hips, panting with a pleasured whimper as Reaper props one knee against the bed and slams a hand up beside your face to brace himself. He freezes just as quickly as he moved.

His chest is inches from yours, his mask just as close. You can hear him panting, his breathing staggered and ragged. He smells devastatingly tempting, sharp with arousal and lust. You bite your lip, and he groans.

“Fuck, you smell—” He shudders. His mask dips a little lower. “So_ good_. Fuck.”

You’re both breathing hard, and neither of you move. Your thighs squeeze his hips, ever so slightly, and Reaper growls again.

“Shit,” he rasps. “You need to let go.”

He makes no move to pull away, though, and you run your hand down his chest. “Don’t go,” you murmur. Reaper shivers, and you slide both your hands up his chest and over his shoulders. He growls and you shudder, your body arching up against his.

“Please. I—I need you.”

“[Y/N],” Reaper moans.

You’ve never heard him moan like that, low and needy, and your arousal thrills. “Reaper _please_.” You pull him close enough to bring your mouth to hover around his ear, hidden beneath the hood. “Alpha, _please_.”

He’s shaking a little and you wrap your legs around him, pulling his hips flush with yours. You twitch, and you let your mouth fall open with a quiet gasp.

“I can smell how badly you want me,” you whine. “And I know you can smell me. Please, Reaper, my alpha, make me—”

“No.” Reaper shakes his head, his fingers curling tight against the bed.

“I know you want me,” you plead, and Reaper growls.

“Of course I fucking want you. You have no idea how _divine _you smell right now, _begging _for me—” His hips twitch, and he hisses. “I want you so bad it’s _killing_ me, but I’m not—I may be a monster, but I’m not doing this to you. I’m not Maximillian, and I’m not Flint.”

You shake your head, caught entirely off guard. “What are you talking about?”

Reaper presses unconsciously closer, breathing you in. “You saw Maximillian with that omega. Made her do whatever he wanted. Took advantage of her inability to say no. Not gonna do that to you.” He groans, his mask nuzzling against the side of your neck. Your eyes roll back and you tilt your head for him. “You’re driving me crazy,” he whispers, distracted.

“This is different,” you tell him. “We’re different.” You drape your thigh high over his hip.

“How?” he croaks. He’s trembling a little with the effort of holding back. His mask flashes in the corner of your vision and you roll you head to face him. You’re burning alive with want, but you still have the capacity to think half-clearly. This close, you can see the barest glimmer of his eyes behind the shadows.

“I can say no,” you tell him. “But I don’t want to. I _want_ you. I care about you, and even if—even if it was forced, even if it wasn’t my choice, I—I’m glad. I’m glad it’s you.” You touch the side of his mask, cupping the smooth curve over his cheek. “O’Deorian manipulated my instincts, but she didn’t do anything to my mind. It hurts to have you reject me, but nothing is forcing me to do this. No one is forcing me to want you overtop of me, fucking me senseless. And this?” You bring your other hand to his face, burning and wanting him, wanting him, _wanting_ him. You look into the darkness of his eyes, and your voice cracks. “This is my choice.”

Your press your lips to the mouth of his mask, kissing the cool, smooth surface. Reaper doesn’t react, doesn’t flinch, doesn’t respond. Your heart is thudding hard, and you start to pull back to see his face.

Reaper grabs you, claws curling around your jaw as he growls out a single command. “Close your eyes.”

You can barely keep them open anyways, with the daze of arousal and desperation. You close your eyes and breathe in the scent of Reaper’s arousal and desire. He shifts, and then—

And then—

His mouth is on yours. You squeak, almost opening your eyes but stopping yourself at the last second. Reaper kisses you, his lips soft and deft, and his hands are sliding up under your shirt, claws skimming against the soft flesh over your hips and the delicate skin of your ribs…

You moan into his mouth, and he sucks your lip before biting it. You moan again, and his tongue pushes against your lip. You open your mouth, begging for more, but he has more control than you do. His lips brush yours before he kisses you again, deeply. You sigh, and whimper, and shiver, going to putty in his hands. His tongue slides against yours as he kisses you in waves. He teases your lower lip with his teeth, sucking the spot and driving you absolutely, wildly _insane_. You lose track of time. You forget your own name. Reaper kisses you, and you get lost in his wet, demanding lips and his teasing, tempting tongue. You feel a brush of a beard, and your hand finds its way to his face.

Reaper stiffens at the touch, pulling back a little. You’re both panting, and you can feel his breath ghosting over your face. You shudder, mouth falling open in pleasure. Under your hand you can feel the scruff of a beard and moustache framing his mouth. You’re terrified to move, frantic to get his mouth back on yours.

“Wow,” you finally croak. “You’re a better kisser than I expected.”

He lets out a quick breath through his nose, an almost-laugh, and you bite your lip. The kissing was enough to preoccupy you, but you can already feel the heat building, demanding that you get his tongue back in your mouth.

“Please don’t go,” you beg. You lick your lips, wet and a little swollen. “I won’t look.”

His breathing evens out a little, whispering warmly against your cheek. “…Don’t move.”

His weight shifts off of you, and you reluctantly unhook your legs and let him pull away. Every nerve screams at you to drag him back and crawl into his lap and drive the both of you crazy, but you grab a fistful of blankets and force yourself to stay still, to keep your eyes shut.

You can hear Reaper open the wardrobe, and a moment later you hear fabric tear. Your face turns in the direction of the sound, although you keep your eyes resolutely shut. Your heart beats against the inside of your chest, and you can feel it all though your ribs. You lick your lips again, dizzy with the memory of his kiss.

“Where are you?” you whine, and steps make their way back over to you.

“Lift your head.”

You do, and a moment later a piece of cloth touches your face. You gasp, and then relax when you realize what it is. Reaper ties the blindfold snugly, and you reach up to adjust the soft cloth just a little.

“Is that alright?” he asks, and you nod.

“If it gets you back over here, it’s perfect.”

He growls, but you get your wish as his body presses down over yours. Your breath hitches, and you whimper when his hands slip back beneath your shirt. His bare palms press to your sides, and his thumbs trace tantalizing lines against your hips. His mouth returns to yours and he kisses you dizzy, kisses you stupid, kisses you until you’re lost in him. His lips are divine, and he devours you. You’re insensible beneath him, melting into a pile of heat and desire beneath his hand sliding over your stomach.

Reaper’s mouth slips off yours, and the bridge of his nose nudges your jaw back as he kisses the soft spot just beneath. You’re panting, and you squirm and whimper as he sucks and kisses at your neck.

“How are you so _sensitive_?” Reaper grunts, nipping your earlobe and sucking at one spot on your throat. “So responsive to every little thing.” Without the mask, mouth close to your ear, his voice is a purr. He sounds softer, clearer, _gentler_, less of a vibrating growl in his tone. His tongue laves against your skin and you sob, blindly reaching for him.

Your fingers bump his neck, then find his hair. You grip the soft, thick locks and hold on tightly as your whole world crumbles around Reaper’s touch. Your core _aches_, and you cry out, hips twitching.

“_Reaper_, please!”

He hums, pushing your shirt up higher. Cool air touches your burning skin, and a moment later Reaper’s mouth hovers over yours.

“Arms up.”

You lift your arms and he strips off your shirt. His hands are all over you in an instant, and you can smell his satisfaction as he lets out a pleased growl. “I’m going to fuck you until you can’t walk.”

Arousal surges though your core, and you pull his hair. “Oh _yes_. Please, please—”

His fingers hook on your waistband, and he strips you bare in one sharp movement. You gasp, thighs pressing together, and you hear Reaper’s belts jingle as he peels off his own clothes. You writhe, imagining him shoving down his pants, crawling back over you and sliding into you. You’re soaked enough that you bet he’ll go in easy. You can feel your wetness dripping down your ass, and you can’t help but twitch at the though of Reaper filling you and fucking you hard.

“You smell so good,” Reaper purrs, his hands pushing your thighs apart. “Irresistible. I can smell how badly you want to be fucked.” He shifts, hands sliding down under your knees as he tugs you forwards until your butt is on the very edge of the bed.

You’re burning, and you spread your legs for him, aching. The air is hot and thick, and it’s hard to breathe as your hips twitch, desperate. You feel the ghost of Reaper’s breath against your inner thigh, and then he leans in and presses a kiss to your dripping sex.

You moan, head tipping back even as Reaper drapes your thighs over his bare shoulders and licks a long stripe up your wet folds.

“No,” you moan, clutching his hair weakly. “No, no, no, Reaper—!” He pauses, and your thighs tremble. “I want your cock,” you beg. “I want you inside me.”

He laughs, and something slides through your folds. Your muscles flutter.

“You’ll get it. I plan on making you come more than once.”

With that, he dips back down and his mouth finds your pussy. You moan, trembling as Reaper expertly sucks and licks at your sensitive sex until you can feel your pelvis tightening with pleasure. He flicks his tongue against the sensitive bundle of nerves and you cry out, heels digging into his back. Reaper grips your thigh with one hand, teasing the spot while he reaches down to side two fingers through your slick.

“_Oh_, Reaper,” you babble. “More, give me more.”

He pushes his fingers into you, and you hardly last a minute before your hips are jerking while his fingers thrust into you, hitting all the right spots. The mounting pleasure builds, and you’re torn between the image of sitting in Reaper’s lap and riding him, and then heavenly feeling of his fingers crooking inside you as his tongue slides over your clit—

The pleasure snaps over you, and your mouth opens in a soundless wail as your body goes tense. You arch up off the bed, and Reaper just braces a hand under your lower back, continuing to pump his fingers into you as you twitch and spasm around him. The bliss washes over you, and you feel tingly and relaxed for a mere moment before a spark of desire ignites within you.

“Oh god,” you sigh.

“Not satisfied?”

You bite your lip, looking blindly towards Reaper’s voice. “I wasn’t expecting that.”

“Didn’t like it?” he asks, and your brain goes kind of stupid when you hear the sound of him sucking you off of his fingers.

“I—I liked it,” you stutter, as the spark of arousal flares to full-on desperate just like that. “Oh, fuck. You’re too—” He leans in, and his scent drives you wild. You whimper, pulling him towards you. He allows it, and you drag him up to kiss you as your hands slide all over his body.

You taste yourself on his tongue. You can feel your slick dampening his beard, and you bite his lip as you explore the planes of his body. His chest is dreamy, muscular and enticing. His shoulders are well-muscled, and when you grab his bicep, you swoon. You start to reach down to feel for the abs that you know are there, but Reaper grabs your wrist, pinning it over your head.

“So touchy,” he mutters, kissing you.

“Don’t complain when you have a body like that,” you reply. Your untrapped hand skims his shoulder-blade, then flits to his stomach. You sigh dreamily at the firm outline of muscle. You can only imagine him pinning you up against the wall and fucking you senseless. Your fingertips move lower, and you frown when you hit fabric. You blindly reach around, and Reaper snarls, kissing you fiercely when you palm him by mistake.

“You’re still dressed?”

“Not for long, if you keep that shit up.”

This time it’s no mistake when you reach down and cup your hand against him. He stutters a growl, and you slip your tongue into his mouth, feeling the unusually sharp edges of his canines and molars. You lift your thigh, pressing up between his legs, and Reaper snaps.

He grabs you, hoisting you up into the air. He drops you down onto the bed in a different spot, and you hear his pants drop. A moment later he’s on you, catching your wrists with one hand and pinning them against the pillows. His other hand pushes your thighs apart, and his thumb swipes through your slick.

“Yes, yes, please,” you beg, wiggling your hips. Your face is hot and your body is clenching around nothing, begging for your alpha. “I want you.”

“You sound so good _begging_ for me,” he groans, and you feel the head of his cock press up against you. You’re shaking, and he nuzzles your collarbone, kissing your throat and breathing in deeply.

“You’re mine,” he growls, and thrusts into you.

He slides right in, and you cry out at the sudden stretch. You dissolve into the bed, so completely, wonderfully full. You can barely move with the pleasure of Reaper deep inside you, and you sprawl beneath him, panting as your head spins.

Reaper licks at your throat, and you shudder with ecstasy as he brushes against your scent glands. He breathes in deep, and pulls out before thrusting back into you. “You’re addictive.”

“Oh please fuck me,” you whimper.

Reaper picks up the pace, pushing your thighs apart and pounding into you until you can’t seem to breathe. He’s so big, stretching and filling you perfectly, and every thrust has you seeing stars. The tension is already mounting, and you fling your arms around Reaper’s neck as you chant his name.

“Oh, oh _yes_, so good,” you croon. “I’m so close, so close, please—!”

He slides out of you and slams back in, and you squeeze your thighs against his hips.

“You feel so good, Reaper, _ah_—!”

Reaper bites your lip, kissing the corner of your mouth when you chase his lips. He kisses you deeply, thrusting into you, and you curl your fingers into his hair with a quiet moan.

“_Dulzura_,” he groans, hips stuttering. You can feel the warmth of him spilling into you as he fucks you through it. His release runs out of you, dripping down your skin as he grabs your hip and rocks into you and rubs his thumb over the bundle of nerves hidden in your folds—

You come with a shout, clenching down around Reaper as your limited vision goes white. You see stars, your head and body buzzing and you flop back down onto the bed. The blankets are rumpled, but they cradle you cozily. Your body is glowing with content, satisfied warmth.

Reaper pulls out of you and you make a noise. He squeezes your hip, moving to pull away, but you grab his wrist. You’re clumsy and weak, but you convey your intent, and Reaper sighs and lies down with you. His body is only half on yours, and you snuggle his head to your chest even as he grunts and brushes a lock of hair off your sweaty forehead.

You lay in comfortable silence for a while, listening as both of your breathing goes from ragged to easy. You run a hand through Reaper’s hair and he makes a noise.

“Do you not like me touching you?” you ask. You tug a little at the blindfold, using the edge to wipe some sweat from your face before you leave it be. It feels weird to be blind, but if it matters to Reaper, you won’t complain.

He shrugs a little. “I’m not used to it.”

“Mm.” You pet his hair, running your fingers through the thick, soft waves. “What colour is your hair?”

Reaper takes a moment to reply. “My hair?”

You nod. “I’m trying to form a mental image.”

“Black,” he says, and you smile.

“It suits you.”

He snorts, and you keep stroking his hair.

“You don’t want me to see your face,” you say, “but am I allowed to touch it?”

Reaper sucks in a breath, and he swallows before he speaks. “Not… not right now. Not yet.”

Your heart sinks a little, but you nod. “I can be patient.”

A few minutes pass, and then Reaper speaks.

“You’re… really okay? With this?”

“Hm?”

You feel him gesture, and from the shift of his arm, he’s gesturing either to himself or to you.

“Of course I’m okay with this. You’re my alpha.” You pause, worry begging to swirl in your chest. “Are… are you okay with this?” Consumed by your desire for him, you hadn’t stopped to ask if he wanted it. He didn’t pull away from you, and he seemed to want it, but maybe he really didn’t and he only fucked you because you were pressuring him—

“Of course,” he purrs. “You’re my omega.”

The words send a jolt through you, and the thrill of joy in your chest is matched by a fresh thrill of desire between your hips. You groan.

“I should get you some water,” he mutters, but you refuse to let him leave. You pull him back down, and when he huffs at you, you press kisses to his neck and shoulder.

“Don’t leave me,” you murmur.

“I’ll just be a second,” he reasons, but you push him onto his back, climbing into his lap and leaning down to kiss him. You almost miss, lacking sight, but you quickly recover and fit your mouth to his. You kiss him softly at first, then rougher, deeper, hotter as your desire and need fan back into a fire. Reaper rubs his hands lazily up and down your thighs as you touch his chest and kiss him.

You can’t stop the soft, breathy sounds that seem to be coming from the back of your throat. They sound wanton, _sensual_. You sigh against his lips, shifting to straddle Reaper’s hips. You pant, unable to move as you drink in the feeling of his warm palms against you. He squeezes your thighs slightly, almost massaging you when he moves up to your hips, his thumbs pressing to the curve of your bones.

He sits up beneath you, and you brace a hand against his chest to catch your balance. He lounges back against the pillows, rubbing your right thigh while his other hand hooks behind your left knee and tugs your leg a little higher.

“I’m tired, so you’d better do all the work,” he says.

You laugh, reaching down for him. You use your blindness as an excuse to touch his stomach, his hips, the side of his thigh…. Reaper grunts, and you smile, relenting. Your fingers skim his length and your mouth starts to water as you slide down onto him. He’s already half hard, and you sink down slowly, letting out a pleased noise when you sit down fully on his hips.

“Mm,” you sigh, letting your head fall back a bit. You feel so wonderfully full. Just having Reaper inside you is its own kind of pleasure, and you let yourself drown in it before the spark in your belly forces you to move.

You brace your hands against Reaper’s stomach as you slide your hips up and down his shaft. You start slowly, because you really don’t have the capacity to take in sensations as well as control your movements. His stomach is taut beneath your hands, and you can feel the ripple of muscle as he grunts and cants his hips up to meet you. You groan, hips jerking.

“Are you being a tease on purpose?” Reaper demands, and you splay your fingers against his abdomen. You can feel his hot skin, the delicate ridges of scars.

“By all means, feel free to contribute,” you tease, dropping down on him. He hisses, and you reach up, gripping his shoulder for better leverage. You clench around him, and Reaper snarls, snapping up into you. He grabs your waist, and you let him set the pace as you ride him.

Reaper grunts in pleasure, kneading at your thigh. You bounce in his lap, flushed and panting. The ache of arousal flares in your core, and you can feel the shift as pleasure begins to build. You moan, wiggling your hips.

“Oh, your hands are really big.” His fingers curl around you, and you smile. All of him is big. He makes you feel small, and you aren’t sure whether it makes you feel delicate, or explosive. You settle back into Reaper’s lap, biting your lip. He makes a ragged, desperate noise, and you wish more than anything that you could see his face right now.

“_That’s it_,” he growls, his voice rough and deep. He pulls out of you so fast you gasp, and then he’s grabbing you, hefting you up and flipping you over as he hoists your hips up. You squeak, shocked at both the speed and the unexpected lewdness of having your ass in the air. You don’t have long to be shocked, because a moment later Reaper grabs your hips and plunges back into you.

He sets a rough pace, fast and hard. He thrusts into you deeply, and within seconds you’re starting to shake from the hot coil of pleasure.

“I though,” you gasp, “you were—tired?”

Reaper slams into you twice, and you cry out. He stops, leaning over you until his body pushes your face down against the pillows, until your back is arching and you’re on the verge of coming right then and there. Reaper’s nose skims up your shoulder and neck, and he pauses to tug your earlobe with his teeth.

“What kind of alpha would I be if I didn’t fuck you until you were satisfied, hm?”

He pulls back, and you get lost in the intoxicating feel of him thrusting into you hard and fast, spreading you wide and singing hot tensions through every inch of your body. You whimper against the pillows, toes curling as the tightness spreads from your core into your muscles. You arch your back, burying your face and silently begging for more. Reaper grips you tight, thrusting hard into you as he tugs you back against him. You open your mouth to cry out, but no sound leaves you as Reaper presses a hand firmly against your stomach, just above your pelvis. The added pressure makes you gasp, and when he slams back into you, your vision goes white.

The cries get stuck in your throat, soundless, but you know Reaper can feel you come. Your whole body goes tight, until you feel like you’re about to snap. Then it releases, and you go limp and shaky, spasming around him with wave after wave of mind-numbing pleasure. Your eyes roll back, and you arch your back hard, barely ably to focus on anything beyond your ragged breathing as Reaper fucks you through it.

A rough, broken sound croaks out of your throat, and you finally go limp. Your skin is buzzing with pleasure, like tiny warm sparks dancing comfortably across your body. You do your best to keep your ass up, though, until Reaper finally stutters and finished with a groan. He gushes inside you, pulling out wetly and sighing. His release drips out of you, and Reaper grabs your legs, pulling them straight so you flop down flat on your stomach. You laugh against the pillows, rolling your head to the side ever though you can’t see him.

“Ahh, wow.” You breathe in deeply. Your body is too heavy with contentment to even consider moving. “Where are yo—”

You’re cut off abruptly as Reaper flops down heavily on top of you. He squashes out your breath, and you wheeze before he grunts and rolls to the side, pulling you against him. He tugs your body flush to his, and you burn at every point of contact. Reaper ducks down to nuzzle at you, and he lets out a pleased noise as he nuzzles over your shoulder and against your neck.

You can’t move, and your chest feels hot and tight. Reaper holds you tight to him, nosing his way along your jaw. He drops kisses against your skin, sucking lightly at your throat and kissing slowly over your shoulder. You feel the slight scratch of his beard as he nestles his face against the side of your neck, and you can feel the warmth of his breath, hear the way he breathes in deeply.

Reaper makes a soft, contented noise.

You’re about ready to burst. He’s scenting you, and he’s doing it so affectionately you might cry. You suck in a sharp breath, and Reaper finally goes still, clearing his throat.

“Sorry,” he mutters. “I wasn’t paying attention—”

“Don’t stop,” you demand. You grab his arm, wrapping your fingers against the muscular forearm snug against your waist. “Please. I like it.”

He doesn’t kiss you again, but he keeps his face close to your skin, and once or twice you feel him forget himself and instinctively nuzzle at you. You relax back against him, rubbing your hand lightly along his forearm.

“Yesterday,” Reaper says, breaking the silence. “Yesterday, on the mission…”

“Hm?”

His voice rumbles in his chest, and you can feel the vibrations against your back. It’s unbelievably calming. You snuggle a little closer to Reaper.

“The way you reacted when you thought I was dying…. You were upset.” You can hear the frown in his voice. “You were really upset.”

You remember the devastation of thinking he was dying from the bullets in his chest, and your breath hitches. You curl up a little tighter. “Of course I was.”

Reaper hesitates. “I—”

“Hm?”

He coughs. “I was worried about you. The whole time we were waiting, all I could think was that Flint was touching you, _hurting _you, and then we got in there and I could smell him all over you—”

Reaper breaks off, and he grabs you tighter, nuzzling against you.

“You’re mine,” he says gruffly. “You’re mine, and I’ll protect you.”

Your heart flips, over and over, and you’re incandescent. You roll over to face Reaper, and he stiffens a little, then relaxes. He stiffens again when you kiss him. You nearly miss, bumping the side of his mouth before adjusting. You kiss him slowly, lingering against his lips, letting yourself get lost as he presses a hand to the small of your back and returns the kiss.

You lose yourself in the soft press of Reaper’s lips against yours, the warmth of his breath and the light bristle of his facial hair. You melt so completely that you forget about everything but his lips, as you glow under his touch. You get so lost in his scent that you can’t even think about not kissing him, until Reaper finally pulls back.

“You should rest,” he says, and only then do you realize how exhausted you are. “You don’t have Supersoldier stamina, and I’m willing to bet you’re half-asleep already.”

You make a tiny noise of assent, snuggling against his chest. You kiss his bare skin, tasting salt and breathing in his musk. “Only if you stay.”


	9. Chapter 9

You don’t know quite when you start thinking of Reaper as a man. Not a wraith, not a mystery, but a man. Perhaps it was the moment you first felt his lips on yours, when his heated skin and his tender touches proved once and for all that there was someone warm and alive beneath that dark amour and expressionless mask. Either way, you’ve started thinking of him in a different way, and you can’t stop.

He’d stayed with you for the brief spark of your heat. It had only been the one day, which both relived and alarmed you. You were half expecting a sudden resurgence of warmth at any inopportune moment, but so far nothing had happened.

Well, nothing except a different kind of heat, anyway. The next day, as usual, you dressed and followed Reaper around the base as his little shadow. You spent most of the time walking just behind him, as always, but for once you weren’t clinging to his cloak and glancing around with wide eyes. No, this time you wandered behind him with your eyes glued to his ass. It was a rare sight with his long cloak, but you were treated to a tantalizing glimpse when he turned just so and the heavy cloak pulled tight. And his ass was hardly the only thing that had your attention.

Ever since you’d been able to touch him blindly, you’ve been obsessed with looking at him. You can’t help but drink in every glimpse of his body that you can. And his thighs just about kill you.

Despite the completion of the mission, Reaper still takes you to train, throwing you down onto practice mats and demonstrating maneuvers. Your progress has slowed substantially, since you can’t stop yourself from staring at his thick thighs, muscular beneath tight pants. You practically drool over them, and Reaper mutters about you not focusing, not seeming to realize that he’s the problem.

One thing, however, is worse than his thighs. His wonderful, wonderful thighs catch and hold your attention for the most part, but your eyes always inevitably drift upward, and you find yourself staring at the slight bulge of his crotch beneath low-slung belts. You remember the way he filled you, the way he thrusted into you so perfectly…. You go stupid, and Reaper catches you once, snorting and snapping his fingers in front of your face. He’s cocky for the entire day, and you can feel his gaze burning you when he leads you from the training room to your quarters.

You’re slightly mortified, but almost equally indignant. Really, it was an accident, and you shouldn’t be blamed for it. You’ve been frustrated following him around all day, and it certainly doesn’t help when he’s wrestling you down to the ground and pinning you there. It brings back memories of him pushing you facedown on the bed, and you shudder, blood heating beneath your skin. It isn’t your fault, and he shouldn’t give you a hard time about it, and you’re just about to blurt out as much when Reaper pushes you back against the door of your room and hoists you up by the thighs.

You squeak, grabbing onto him tightly, and he grinds up against you. Any restraint gives way with a shuddering moan as you wrap your legs around him and tip your head back.

“Fuck,” he growls, grinding up against you at _just_ the right angle. “You’re driving me crazy. Do you have any idea how _distracting_ you smell?” He leans in, mask brushing your jaw. “Squirming around beneath me, practically begging to be fucked.”

You moan, pulling him closer. You’re already on fire, and you can feel yourself getting wet at his words. Reaper growls, and he lowers you down, squeezing a handful of your butt before he tugs at your shirt.

“Take this off.”

You’re panting a little as you strip off your shirt, dropping it to the floor. You head for the bed, leaving a trail of clothes as you go. Before you can turn around, a clawed hand steadies your shoulder.

“Eyes closed.”

You comply, and a moment later Reaper fits a blindfold over your face. You reach up, frowning a little. It’s not the same one as last time. The material is softer, and it fits more comfortably.

“What is this?”

“I figured it would be better to invest in something nicer,” Reaper growls, and you hear his gloves hit the ground, follows by his mask, his heavy cloak…

You’re so impatient, naked and blind and infinitely desperate. You brace your hands against the foot of the bed, leaning over and spreading your legs. Reaper growls, yanking off his belts. You hear them thud to the ground, and a moment later his scent floods over you as his reaches down to grab your hips. He smells divine, with the sharpness of arousal and lust, and you lean down on your elbows to brace yourself.

Reaper slides two fingers against you, slicking them thoroughly before he dips them into you. “Shameless,” he growls, pumping his fingers.

You whine, pushing back against them, and Reaper crooks them deliciously inside you.

“Look at you, already so desperate. So fucking _needy_.” He bends over you, pressing a wet, lingering kiss to your spine. He kisses his way towards your neck, and you tilt your head for him, gasping when he sucks beneath your jaw.

“Oh god.”

Reaper’s scent is growing earthier, and the desire in it is almost overpowering. He slides down your body, putting his back against the bed and pulling you over to straddle him. You stutter, and Reaper grips your thighs, bringing you closer.

“What’s gotten into you?” you gasp, hardly disappointed, but more than a little surprised. Reaper sucks at the inside of your thighs, groaning before finally breathing in deeply. His face rests briefly against your leg.

“Fuck. I don’t know.” His vice is lower than usual, rougher than usual. He smells so unbelievably overwhelming. “Been smelling you all day. Irresistible.” He kisses over your pelvis, and then he ducks down, licking some slick from your thigh. The noise he makes is almost pleasured, and your knees go weak as his tongue slides against your folds.

“Reaper,” you moan.

“You taste so damn good,” he replies, and he pulls you tight as he fits his mouth to your lips.

You cry out, squirming and tensing as Reaper immediately sets a devastating pace. His tongue is expert, reducing you to an incoherent mess in less than a minute. You whine for him, but Reaper’s grip is iron and you can neither pull away nor move closer. He traps you in place as he eats you out, and soon enough you’re shaking and twitching as the tensions builds shockingly fast. Your breathing goes high and gaspy, and you can feel the curl of mounting pleasure. Reaper sends you hurtling into your orgasm, and you grab a fistful of thick curls as you come hard.

Your legs spasm, and you can feel yourself dripping down your thighs, thoroughly soaked. Reaper doesn’t let up, even when you start to twitch and squeal.

“Reaper,” you gasp, tugging his hair lightly. “Oh, god, that’s—ah!” You’re too sensitive, and your eyes water at the overstimulation. You whine, but between Reaper’s unceasing ministrations and his intoxicatingly desperate scent, you’re tight with need in no time.

“Oh,” you breathe, head falling back as Reaper coaxes a tight knot of pleasure back into your core. “Oh, you’re too much, you’re so good, I want you inside me.”

Reaper hoists one of your legs over his shoulder, and your other quickly follows. His hot tongue works against you, teasing your dripping folds and sensitive nerves until you’re shuddering.

“Reaper, _Reaper_—!” You spasm, your whole body clenching. Tears spring to your eyes, running down your cheeks as you rock your hips as much as you can against Reaper’s face. “Please, make me come, fuck, fuck me—”

Three fingers slide into you, pumping five steady thrusts, and you break. You come all over Reaper’s face, thighs clenching around him as your whole body shudders with the electric snap of pleasure. You moan, long and low, collapsing against the bed. You’re boneless, lightheaded with the ferocity of two strong orgasms in such quick succession.

For one terrifying moment you think Reaper is going to push you for a third, but he just licks up some of the mess before maneuvering your legs off of him. A moment later he pulls you up onto the bed and you collapse limply in his lap. You shift around and he growls, hips twitching. You laugh, reaching down to stroke him. He’s rock hard, leaking slightly, and you blink in surprise even under the blindfold.

“No wonder you were so impatient.”

Reaper grunts, thrusting up into your hand. It can’t be comfortable, and you frown, reaching down between your legs for some lubrication. You wrap your fingers around him again, and this time Reaper groans softly.

“Did you just start a rut?” You began to suspect, with his strangely desperate scent, but now you’re almost certain.

“You did this to me,” he rasps, pulling you in for a kiss. It’s messy, rough and clumsy and hot and desperate, and his mouth is wet with your slick. You wrinkle your nose but allow it, blindly grabbing the edge of a sheet to wipe the mess from his beard afterwards.

“I did?”

“Your heat,” he explains tightly. His hips jerk, and you squeeze his shaft gently. It only makes him get a little wild, and within moments you’re on your back beneath him as he pushes into you with a low groan.

“So hot,” he pants, bottoming out. “_Fuck_, you’re perfect.”

You clench around him at the compliment, and Reaper chokes.

“Wanna fuck you until you’re covered in my scent, so everyone knows you’re mine.” He bites your neck, fucking you slowly. His voice is almost a croon, and you whine with how badly you wish you could see his face right now. You can image the rut-induced glaze in his eyes, the heavy-lidded neediness mixed with fierce desire. You press your heels against him, urging him on.

Reaper sucks at your neck, groaning in between kisses, in between thrusts. “You smell so good. How’m I supposed to keep my hands off you?”

You scratch your nails over his back, gasping. “Oh god. Reaper, you’re—_please_.”

He breaks first, coming with a grunt and a hiss. You wait for him to go limp atop you before you wrap your arms around him. You’re both sweaty and tired, and you nuzzle his hair, rubbing his scarred shoulder and doing your best to scent him.

\--

Reaper’s rut lasts a little longer than your sporadic heat, and you’re treated to him fucking your brains out for three straight days. You don’t leave the room, and Reaper only leaves to bring back food before he’s on you again. It’s exhausting, and it’s wonderful. You love the desperate way he grabs you, hungry and wanting, and you flush with pleasure when you snuggle up with him afterwards.

When the rut finally breaks, Reaper spends most of the day awkwardly silent until he finally fidgets enough for you to ask him what’s wrong.

“I’m sorry, about all that. I’ve never been that… out of it. Before.”

He looks so strange, hunched and contrite on the foot of the bed, fully cloaked and masked. You smile back at him, and Reaper hunches down a little more.

“If I was too rough with you…”

You grab his gloved hand, and he goes quiet.

“You weren’t.”

A pause.

“No?”

You squeeze his hand, pulling him closer. He grumbles, but allows it. You kiss the cheek of his mask, catching him off guard.

“I like it. I liked how much you wanted me.”

He stares at you for a long moment, and you slowly go red. You collapse back onto the bed, rolling over onto your side, facing away from him as you blush furiously.

“I just meant that you don’t usually initiate things like that, and… it was nice. To feel wanted.”

A moment passes, and you’re just about to apologize when Reaper snuggles up against you. His arm drapes over your waist and he grunts, chest pressed to your back.

“I don’t want to feel like I’m pressuring you into anything.”

“You aren’t,” you tell him, brushing your fingertips over the knuckle of his glove. You wish his hand was bare, but you’re hardly going to complain. “In fact, I think you don’t pressure me enough.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

You laugh, face burning again. “It’s nothing.”

He growls, arm tightening against you.

You’re glad he can’t see your face. “Just that—I like it when you want it. When you talk about how much you want me, how I’m _yours_.” You shudder happily at the memory of it. It makes you all warm and fuzzy. “I like it when you can’t keep your hands off me. I want you to do that more. I want you to _wreck _me.”

Reaper growls, and for a moment you worry that you said something stupid. Then he grinds against your butt, and your face is flushed for a whole different reason.

“You’re too much,” he snarls, mask pressing to your neck as he scents you. “You make me wanna bend you over every five minutes. Do you have any idea how _hard _it is to resist you when you smell like this? Even out of a rut, all I can think about is how you smell so desperate. How badly I wanna fill you.”

“Oh yes, please,” you whine. You’re wiggling against him, and Reaper growls, gripping your thigh.

“You’re addictive,” he grunts. “And it’s not fair that you’re doing this shit five minutes before I have a meeting.”

“Skip it,” you say, grinding back against him. He smells amazing, and his obvious want is making you needy. “Stay here and fuck me.”

A growl, and Reaper rolls you over onto your stomach.

“Stay here and behave yourself.”

He gets up, and you glance over your shoulder, arching your back with a whine.

“_Alpha_.”

“I can’t miss this meeting,” he tells you firmly.

“Fine,” you pout, reaching over to hook your fingers through his belt. You pull him just close enough to bring your mouth inches away from the noticeable bulge at his crotch. You look up at him through your lashes. “Go to your meeting, then.”

\--

Reaper misses his meeting. Instead of sitting at a table listening to a droning speech, he makes you come on his fingers three times before he fucks you into exhaustion. He reduces you to a puddle, and then he lets you snuggle him with the blindfold firmly covering your eyes.

You run your fingers over his back until the both of you stop breathing hard. Reaper sighs, and his breath tickles your neck.

“You’re impossible. I haven’t gotten anything done in the last week.”

“Why is that my fault?” you tease. You run your thumb against a long, curving scar on his shoulder.

“It’s your fault because you’re a horrible little tempter, and you smell like nirvana.” He bites your neck, and you hum. You rub your thumb against the back of his neck. You’re starting to get familiar with his scars; the one on his neck is off centre, rough and jagged.

“Where did you get this?” you ask softly.

Reaper is silent, and his breath stirs against your neck for a few long moments. “You don’t care about old war stories.”

“I care about _your_ old war stories,” you tell him.

Reaper sighs, but he doesn’t pull away as you feared. “That one was from shrapnel. An explosion during the omnic insurgence. An inch to the left and it would have severed my spine.”

You linger for a moment, tracing the length of the scar. You touch the long curve on his shoulder. “What about this one?”

He shifts, then settles. “Old. An assassin attack in Rialto. Gashed up my arm pretty good. They had to stitch me up in the field.”

You run your index finger down the four-inch-long scar. Nodding, you brush down his bicep to one of the larger cross-hatchings, like an x. “What happened here?”

“Mm. Two separate occasions. One was from broken glass, and the other was a training mishap.”

“Training mishap?”

“Some kid grabbed a real blade instead of a blunted one. Idiot,” he huffs softly. It sounds almost warm, but you don’t press. It’s rare to hear him reminisce, and you don’t want to disrupt him. Instead, you trace down his ribs to find the rough, pitted circle.

“This one?”

“Ah, that was a bullet wound. I’ve got loads of those. I can’t remember most of them.”

You drift your fingers over his skin, recognizing more bullet wounds. You pause on one in the centre of his back, just under his right shoulder blade. You can feel your hand starting to shake, and you try to fight back the hot burn of anger and tears before he notices.

“Hey,” he mutters, and you swallow.

“You were shot in the back.”

“…More than once.”

Your anger surges, and you press your palm over the wound, as if you could block the bullet. “That’s cowardly.”

“It’s life or death. In a real fight, it doesn’t matter if you go for the front or the back. You do what it takes to survive. There’s no such thing as honour.”

“Did you kill them? The one that did this?”

Reaper sighs. “Not that one.”

You growl, but Reaper is relaxed, and his calm presence soothes you. You sigh, reaching up to knead your palm between his shoulders. You’ve noticed he likes that, and his tension eases whenever you do it. Reaper hums, nuzzling your neck lightly. You reach down, laying your hand over his. You can feel the ridges and dips of numerous small scars over his knuckles.

“How did these happen?”

He stiffens, and you go still. His fingers curl, and he moves to pull away before he hisses out a short breath.

“You’ve seen the mirror.”

Your breath hitches. An image of the shattered bathroom mirror flashes into your mind, fragmented and webbed with broken shards. You can feel the tiny slices of scars from the broken glass. He must have punched it hard enough to crack the glass and dig dozens of shards into his hand. You instinctively cover his hand with yours, shielding the scars beneath your palm.

“Why?”

“_Why_?”

You bite your lip. His tone has suddenly gone hard. You try to backpedal, but he shakes his head and sits up, pulling away.

“Reaper—”

“I need to go anyways. Akande needs to brief me on what I missed.”

“_Reaper_.” You sit up, and blindly searching for him. His weight leaves the bed before you can touch him, and your chest stabs with pain. “I’m sorry.”

A gloved hand catches yours, and he gives you a light squeeze, although his voice is a bit gruff. “It’s fine. You didn’t do anything. I need to get to work.”

Despite his words, you can’t help but feel hurt and guilty. When Reaper leaves, you sit for a moment before peeling the blindfold off. It feels weird to have your vision back so suddenly.

You try your best to think about other things, but you can’t stop your wandering mind, and soon enough you find yourself standing in the bathroom, staring at the shattered mess of the mirror. Your reflection is impossible to see clearly, distorted by webbing cracks of glass. You can barely make out a piece of your face repeating a million times in each mirrored shard. The rest of your reflection is a mystery, indistinguishable in the brutalized mirror.

You reach up to touch your face, but all you see is a vague ripple of movement reflected back at you. Your head rings with one nagging question that you can’t seem to ignore. What did Reaper see to make him beat his hand to shreds? What did he see to make him destroy such a reflection?


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Notes:
> 
> Angst, hurt/comfort.

Reaper is midway through showing you how to flip an assailant over your shoulder when Sombra interrupts by bounding up and punching you enthusiastically in the shoulder. You jump, rubbing your arm, but she’s already winking slyly, tapping the side of her nose.

“I heard from your friend that he’s safe and sound.”

“Friend..?” You frown in confusion before you realize who she’s talking about. You gasp, grabbing her arm. “You mean Roan? He contacted you?”

Sombra nods, grinning. Reaper growls, menacing, and you glance from him to your grip on Sombra’s arm before you release her.

“He’s safe?” you check.

“That’s what he said. He sent in a message to my private channel saying that he’s with his friends, he’s very grateful, yadda yadda.”

You’re giddy with relief, and Reaper crosses his arms.

“You could have waited,” he mutters. “[Y/N] won’t concentrate on anything I say for the next two hours.”

“I will,” you try, but you both know you’re too bubbly to focus on any more training. Reaper takes it easy on you, taking you back to the room early. He mumbles something about having to fill out some mission reports anyways, but when you’re in private, you drop a kiss against his mask.

“Why’re you so happy?”

“I’m just relieved,” you admit, flopping down onto the bed with a sigh. Despite everything, there had been a constant gnaw of worry in your gut, and now that it has released you realize just how stressful it had been. You smile up at Reaper as he stares down at you. He doesn’t move, and you hook your foot behind his leg.

His arms cross.

You playfully tug at him with your heel, and Reaper grunts.

“What are you doing?”

“What are _you _doing? I’m in a good mood. Come here.”

He sighs, but it only takes one more tug for him to relent. Reaper drops down onto the bed, sitting with his leg pressed up against your thigh. You reach up to him, grabbing handfuls of his cloak and pulling him down. You close your eyes, and Reaper huffs, batting your hands away. You allow him the space to grab the blindfold off the night table, and you patiently let him secure it before you fumble for his mask.

Reaper doesn’t move as you pull away his mask and tug off his gloves. You’re a little clumsy without sight, but you’ve gotten used to it. You grab Reaper’s cloak again, this time pulling him down into a kiss.

Reaper’s lips are warm, and the moment he kisses you back, you realize his complaining was all show. He presses you down into the mattress, gripping your hip and engulfing your body with his. He kisses you hard and deep, and you sigh against his lips.

You reach up to tangle your fingers in his hair, and Reaper growls.

“I hate how good you smell when you’re happy. _Intoxicating_.” He bites your lip, sucking the spot before his tongue slides into your mouth.

You moan, tugging his hair lightly as you fall apart beneath him. He undoes you so easily, his fingers slipping up beneath your shirt as his lips reduce you to a senseless mess. His hands are deft and devilish, teasing over your waist and your ribs, roaming upwards—

You kiss the corner of his mouth, nipping his lip and kissing him again, relishing in the faint scratch of his beard. You can feel the corner of his mouth twitch, and he lets out the softest, breathiest moan when you press your leg up against him.

Reaper catches your wrist, pinning it over your head and pressing his weight down on you. His scent has gone all wanting and ferocious, and you tip your head back with a hum. He attacks your neck, kissing and sucking his way down your throat. You can already feel marks starting to form, and you whimper when he turns his attention to that one sensitive spot just beneath your ear.

“Ah, Reaper…”

“I’m trying to be considerate, but if you keep _whining_ like that—” He bites your throat, and you squeak, catching your free hand in his cloak and pulling him closer.

“Don’t be considerate,” you breathe.

He growls, and his hands are on you, pushing your thighs apart and kneading at your body. As much as you want him, you miss his lips. You distract him with another kiss, pulling him back and fitting your mouth to his. You kiss him slowly, lingering and tender, and he softens. The tension drains from his body, and his sharp need warms and gentles. You slide your palm down his armoured chest, back up to his shoulder. Reaper’s breath stutters, and you can just _imagine_ his parted lips, the hazy look in his eyes. You suddenly want to see his expression, to see exactly how you’re affecting him. The hitch in his breathing is wildly temping, and you sigh longingly as Reaper presses you back and nuzzles your jaw.

“I wish I could see you,” you murmur. “I bet you’re beautiful.”

Reaper goes completely still. By the time your mind catches up with you, he’s pulled away,

leaving a cool rush of air where his body was. You sit up quickly, stuttering for something to say, but Reaper cuts you off with a harsh, bitter laugh.

“_What_?”

You flinch, startled by the flint and ice in his tone. He sounds torn between shock and anger.

“What did you say?” he demands. You’ve never heard him so cold. Not to you.

“I—I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“I didn’t realize you’d deluded yourself that much.” His voice is flat, flinty, hard.

You swallow, reaching for him. Your fingers brush his shoulder, but he grabs your hand, stopping you.

“I’ve told you before, the blindfold is for _your _benefit.”

You frown, resting your other hand on his thigh. “I didn’t mean to push you. I’m sorry.”

Reaper snarls, and his grip on your hand tightens. “_Push_ me? What are you—I thought that you were capable of thinking realistically. I didn’t realize you had this whole thing warped into some _fantasy_.”

“What are you—”

“You said you knew what you were doing,” he hisses. “I thought you were in your right mind, but you’re clearly not right in the head if you think anything _about _me is _beautiful._” He spits the word like venom. His body is so tense you can _feel _it in the air between you.

“Reaper—”

His hand tightens on yours so hard that it almost hurts. “I’m a _monster_. What about that do you not _understand_?” He’s furious, so angry you can smell it like something burning. He’s bitterly angry, and buried beneath it, there’s a sharp sting of deep, deep pain. Anguish. Fear.

“This isn’t some fantasy. I’m not some _hero_. I’m a _monster_, and you need to realize that before you trick yourself into thinking there’s anything decent about me. _Beautiful_,” he scoffs, snatching up your other hand. He yanks you forwards, and you gasp, off balance for the moment it takes before he presses both of your palms to his face.

“You call this _beautiful_?”

The first thing you feel is warmth. He’s holding both of your wrists tight, as if he expects you to try to pull away. You let your hands cup his cheeks, and you try to map out a mental image.

You can feel the raggedness of scars, tearing up one side of his face. It mars his entire cheek, right down to his mouth. The skin is puckered, and when you brush your thumb down it, you can feel the roughness of burns.

Judging by the feel of it, his entire cheek is badly scarred, torn up by cuts and burns, like the flesh was scrapped off of it. You feel the rough ridges and ripples of the large scar, smooth patches where gashes healed over with thick scar tissue. His cheek is a mess, but you only have a moment to think about it. Reaper is tense as a spring, but you’re too preoccupied to pay much attention.

On his other cheek, you can feel scarring as well. The scars aren’t as severe as the other one, and you picture thin, pale lines tracing over his skin.

You trail your fingers down to his beard, gently, slowly. You feel the sharp edge of his jaw, the tension in it. You touch his cheeks again, and you let your fingers drift over to his nose. There’s a small scar across the bridge of it, and as you smooth your fingers over his brow, you finally feel some of Reaper’s tension dissolve. His overpowering anger and nerves have faded to a confusion, and you breathe in shallowly, afraid to break the precious moment.

You explore his face, eventually pressing your palms back against his cheeks, cupping his face and stroking your thumb against the rough, angry scar.

“Yes,” you breathe.

“W—What?”

You can’t help but smile, tracing the pad of your thumb over his bottom lip before you lean in and kiss him. It’s sweet, chaste, delicate. You pull back enough for him to see your expression.

“Yes. I think you’re beautiful.”

He seems shocked. Utterly, completely, thoroughly floored. He doesn’t say a word, just makes a little strangled sound, like his voice is trapped in his chest. You cradle his face, unable to let go now that you’ve been granted permission to touch.

“You—maybe you can’t tell,” Reaper rasps. “But half my face is _shredded_.”

You hum. “I can tell.” You run your thumb along his cheekbone. “You think I’m that petty?”

“That’s hardly the worst of it,” he chokes. He sounds like he might be sick. His scent is all over the place, disorienting and worrying. You reach for his hand, but he pulls it away.

“[Y/N], you— touching it is one thing. Looking at it—I’m a monster. I’m _repulsive_.”

His anguish is overpowering. You nearly sway with the intensity of it. Anguish and sharp, surging fear.

“Even _I_ can’t stand to look at myself.” He says it so quietly, your heart damn near splits in half.

“Reaper,” you murmur, cradling his face. “You’re my alpha. I’m not going to leave you.”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

“I won’t.”

You can feel his shoulders fall. His breathing gets kind of raspy, and a flicker of concern burns in your chest.

“I look dead,” he whispers.

“Well I know for a fact you’ve got a pulse.”

“…It’s more than just my face. Everything about me… I’m barely human anymore.”

You lean in, pressing the softest kiss to his forehead. Your heart thrills at the warmth of his skin.

“I’m not afraid of you, Reaper.”

A deep breath shudders out of him, and you feel his fingers curl up under the side of your blindfold. You can smell his fear. You rest your hand over his, doing your best to settle him even as your heart picks up pace.

“If you don’t want to, I can wait.”

“Just… don’t run.”

He steels himself, and you keep your eyes closed as he yanks off your blindfold. He’s breathing fast, and you give him a moment longer to change his mind. He doesn’t backpedal, and you let your eyes open as you look up at him for the very first time.

Your gaze falls on Reaper’s face, and everything stops. Your lungs stop working. Your heart stops beating. His eyes aren’t on yours, but they’re brown, dark and lovely. His right cheek is covered in a large, ragged mass of puckered scarring. His brows are thick, his lips plush and framed by dark facial hair. His eyes flit to yours, and the colour flickers scarlet for a fraction of a second. He swallows, throat bobbing faintly. He tucks his chin in, and when he moves, tiny wisps of shadow seem to pour out from his scars, opening brief black wounds before they bleeds into the air and close.

Your hands are starting to tremble, and you clutch them together in your lap.

Reaper’s mouth presses into a tight line, and your eyes catch on the movement of his lips. You notice the tiny curved scar on his upper lip, pale against his skin.

You swallow against a mouth gone completely dry.

Reaper’s hair is thick and ebony, cut short at the sides. Glossy locks fall down over his forehead as he ducks down like he’s expecting you to strike out at him. You can see where the scar on his cheek stretches up towards his ear. The top of his ear is marked with burns, and something deep inside you starts to tremble.

You reach out, and even though you’re moving slowly, Reaper flinches. His eyes squeeze shut, _scared_, and you cup his cheek so, so very gently. You hate that he’s in pain, but you can’t look away from his face. To see his emotions for once…

The trembling thing in your heart grows stronger.

You slowly, slowly lean in and press the most delicate kiss to Reaper’s brow. His shoulders hunch up, and you graze your lips against the crown of his head, brushing the hair from his face with one finger.

“You’re right. You’re so much more than beautiful.”

He chokes, clutching onto your shirt. You nuzzle against his hair, wrapping your arms around his shoulders and pulling him close.

“You’re lovely. Reaper, you’re _stunning_. You… did you really think you look so terrible? _Reaper_—”

His shoulders shake, and you close your eyes, holding him. He makes a choked, hiccupping sound, and you can feel tears begin to prickle at your own eyes as his anguish and disbelief and hurt and pain wash over you.

“Who told you that?” you ask, rubbing his back. “Who could ever call you a monster? They’re wrong. They’re _wrong_, and I _hate_ that they made you feel like you were something terrible.” That shuddering thing in your chest grows, and you finally recognize it as anger. Righteous, violent fury. You curl your fingers into Reaper’s cloak, holding him as he sobs into your shoulder. He’s in _agony_, and you want nothing more than to hunt down whoever hurt him this badly and tear them limb from limb. You’ll destroy anyone who _dares_ to hurt your alpha.

A tear rolls down your cheek and you sniff, running your fingers through Reaper’s hair. “Tell me who hurt you. I’ll ruin them. I’ll make them _pay_—”

Reaper cuts you off when he pulls back and kisses you. It’s clumsy and desperate and a little bit sloppy, wet with tears. He kisses you, and you’re so startled that you forget to detail what you’ll do to anyone who dares to call him a monster. You blink at him as Reaper cradles your face, eyebrows pulled together and cheeks streaked with tears.

Your breath catches. He’s stunning. He’s gorgeous, he’s _perfect_, and he’s _yours_.

“[Y/N],” he breathes. “I don’t deserve you.”

“You deserve the _world_, Reaper. I—”

“Gabriel.”

You pause. “What?”

His eyes flicker away, then back to you. He swallows, clears his throat, straightens up a little. “My name. It’s Gabriel.”

“Gabriel,” you breathe. It feels perfect in your mouth, and you say it again, half-afraid to lose it.

His eyes soften, and Reaper—_Gabriel_—reaches up to cradle your cheek.

“I’ve done terrible things. I’ve done things that make me deserve to be called a monster. How can you look at me like that?”

You rest your hand atop his, leaning in to the touch. You can’t look away from his lovely umber eyes. “You’re my alpha. _Gabriel_. You’re not a monster to me. I’m not going to run away from you.”

He laughs quietly, shaking his head. “I don’t deserve this. I don’t deserve you. You’re so damn _good_, and I—”

“I love you.”

He breaks off abruptly, eyes widening. You watch the way his lashes sweep upwards, the rise of his eyebrows, the barest parting of his lips. Your heart swells and you lick your lips, letting your twined hands fall into your lap as you stare down at them.

“I don’t know how much of this is because of what O’Deorian did, but I know a lot of it is more than that. You’ve always been kind to me. You care about me, and that’s more than most people have ever done. You protect me and keep me safe, and I… I think you’re more of a guardian angel than a monster.” You laugh softly, embarrassed. “You’re my alpha. But more than that, you’re good to me. You take care of me. And it doesn’t help that you’re ridiculously attractive.”

“I think,” Gabriel says, “you have brain damage.” His fingers tighten on yours.

You laugh, looking back up at him. “If I do, it’s your fault for putting me in so many chokeholds.”

He grunts, and you can’t help but giggle. He gives you a look, and you wrinkle your nose, shaking your head.

“What?” he demands.

“Nothing, just—you pouted. Do you always do that? I thought you were irritated.”

Gabriel’s eyes narrow, and he leans back. “What?”

You lean towards him, hands resting on his thighs so you don’t fall. You can’t fight the grin splitting your face. “Have you been making _that_ face all this time? I’ll never be able to take you seriously again, you know. And you say _I’m_ petulant.”

“You are,” he mumbles, leaning further back. “Petulant and whiny and obnoxious.”

You lean closer, on the verge of losing your balance. “But you like it.”

“Not at all,” he lies, resting his hand on your lower back.

You hum, wiggling your eyebrows at him. “I know for a fact that it turns you on when I complain about you making me exercise.”

Gabriel sputters out a laugh, and you go stupid. Every last thought leaves your head as you stare at him. The corners of his eyes crinkle and his lips turn up, and you’re shot through the heart. You absolutely lose it. His laugh is short, more out of surprise that anything. Gabriel opens his mouth, but you cut him off by reaching up to grab his face, staring at him wonderstruck.

“Do that again.”

“What?” His eyebrows have shot up.

You blink rapidly. “Smile. Laugh. Do it again.”

He doesn’t. He frowns, bewildered. “What are you—”

You huff, frustrated, and release him. You silently vow to make him laugh again, so you can see the way his eyes go kind of squinty. Your pulse is drumming, and Gabriel raises a single eyebrow at you.

“You smell like an electric fire.”

“That’s entirely your fault.” You’re flushed, and you fan yourself with your hands. “Stop being so charming.”

“_Charming_?”

“Charming and adorable and—and—” You groan, flopping backwards onto the bed and draping an arm over your eyes. Your cheeks are red, and even your ears are starting to burn. “Stop making me want to kiss you.”

You’re hiding behind your arm, which is why Gabriel catches you completely off guard when he leans down and presses his mouth to yours. You squeak, and he gently pushes your arm aside, shifting to deepen the kiss. You sigh into him, relaxing. Gabriel’s hands wander over your sides, and he wraps his arms around your waist. You hold onto him, one hand on the back of his head keeping him close.

Gabriel rolls you over, reversing your positions. You moan as his tongue slips into your mouth. His body is strong beneath you, and you start to short circuit as you think of his chest and his stomach and his lips and his thigh still between your legs…

“Oh god,” you gasp, and Gabriel’s hand slips beneath your shirt. His fingers tease your skin, and you shiver. He peels your shirt up and you raise your arms, kissing him once more before allowing him to interrupt you. Your shirt comes off, tossed aside somewhere, and you lick your lips as you move to return the favour.

Gabriel snorts as you struggle to maneuver the cloak of off him. He pushes you back, taking over, and you’re more than content to sit back on your heels and drink in the sight of him. The cloak disappears, then his armour, and finally Gabriel sheds the tight, form-fitting black shirt. You struggle not to drool as you study the broad expanse of his chest and shoulders, the tantalizing dip between his collarbones and at his navel. His muscles are solid and well-defined, and you swoon a little at the flex of his abs as he leans back against the pillows.

Gabriel cocks an eyebrow at you, but you hold up one finger in a silent demand. Every inch of him is enthralling, but your eyes seem to have decided that they really, really like his stomach. His skin is covered in scars, all sorts of cuts and bullet wounds and burns, long-healed tissue. You revel in the soft, delicious curves of his stomach and abdomen, all the way down to his hipbones. You flush hot at the sight of the dark trail of hair beneath his navel, disappearing under the low-slung belts.

“_Well_,” you say. “I can’t _believe_ I’ve been missing out on this the whole time.”

He snorts, and you lean in, placing a hand on his chest.

“I mean it. You’re _gorgeous_.”

“Hardly.”

“And _blind_, apparently,” you add, licking your lips and reaching for his belts.

Gabriel doesn’t resist, and you take a few minutes to fiddle with the accessories. You pull off one, then another, and finally the third with mounting frustration. You glance up only to see Gabriel watching you with amusement. You scowl, throwing the last belt to the floor and sitting up.

“What?”

“Nothing.” The corner of his mouth twitches.

You huff, glaring. “Fine, keep your pants _on_ then. See if I care.” You start to scramble off his lap, turning away, but Gabriel catches you, laughing as he hoists you back into his lap and nuzzles your neck.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I’m teasing.”

“I know,” you mutter. “That’s the _point_.”

His nuzzles turn to kisses, and you tip your head, letting his lips have free rein over your throat. You close your eyes, allowing Gabriel to mouth at your neck until your bones have dissolved and you’re a puddle of heat and wanting.

Gabriel kisses against your scent glands and you shudder. His hands have made their way to your legs, and he sucks at your neck, squeezing your thighs and hooking his thumbs under your waistband. You lift your hips, letting him tug down your clothes.

You roll over, kicking off your pants as you reach for Gabriel’s. He helps you, which is definitely a good thing, because by the time they get down to his thighs, you’re useless. Gabriel kicks aside the tactical pants, but you’re too preoccupied with his legs to pay much attention. His thighs are heavenly, and you can’t stop yourself from touching them. He shivers a little under your touch.

“You’re the _worst_ for making me wait until now to see this.” Your mouth is watering as you slide your hands up thick, muscular thighs. You brush over scars, travelling up towards to hips, to the thick shaft of his hard cock. Gabriel’s hips twitch, just barely, and you pause. He growls in frustration, and you hide your smirk, wrapping one hand around him.

He’s hot beneath your hand. Hot and swollen and big. He’s thick and long, and you’re only just starting to appreciate his size as you jerk your fist around him.

“_Fuck_,” Gabriel hisses, hips jerking up into your hand.

You study his body, watching the tightening in his stomach as he strains against the urge to fuck into your hand. You suddenly want him inside you so badly it hurts. You’re soaking wet, walls clenching around nothing and aching desperately to be filled. You can only imagine how good he’ll feel inside you, spreading you open and stuffing you. Gabriel groans, head tipping back. He’s panting just a little, and you ogle the curve of his throat, the underside of his jaw.

“I can smell you,” he croons. “How needy you are.”

You don’t doubt it. You breathe in, and his scent washes over you. Beneath the sweat he smells rich and tempting, and you whimper, resolve breaking. You crawl up his body, grabbing hold of his shoulders and spreading your knees to either side of his hips.

Gabriel peers up at you, eyes shadowed with lust. Your body reacts to the sight, and you shudder at the surge of fierce arousal that shoots through you.

“I can’t wait to be inside you,” he snarls, and you dig your nails into him as you shift your hips back against him.

Gabriel makes a noise as your wet lips slide over his head. You squirm at the burst of pleasure from the contact.

“_Fuck_,” he groans, sitting up enough to grab you with one hand. You push yourself back into his grip, letting him guide you down. When he pushes into you, you nearly drop right down. You squeeze around him and he curses, going tense as a spring. He has remarkable control, holding out long enough to lower you gradually. When you finally settle all the way down on him, Gabriel drops back against the propped-up pillows. His eyes are heavy-lidded, and he’s looking at you like he wants to devour you. His cheeks are dusted with the barest hint of a flush.

On impulse, you reach out and run your fingers through his hair once before you get a tight grip at the roots. Gabriel growls, and you let your head fall back as you lift your hips. You move slowly at first, relishing in the wonderful feeling of Gabriel buried deep inside you. Your self-control breaks quickly, though, and soon enough you’re bouncing in his lap, whining desperately as Gabriel thrusts up into you.

“Oh, you’re too much,” you moan, barely upright. You’re anchored by your grip on his hair and his shoulder, and nothing more. He feels so good that you can’t keep your eyes from closing as your mouth falls open.

“You one to talk,” he replies, grabbing your thighs, your hips, your butt.

He smells like heaven, all hot and smoky and tantalizing. It drives you crazy, and the heat in your hips coils tighter with every breath.

“Gonna cum,” you gasp, and Gabriel growls. He speeds up, and the wonderful friction drives you closer and closer to the edge. You’re tight with it, and Gabriel drives into you at just the right angle. You throw back your head, choking his name as waves of bliss pulse through you. They leave you feeling loose and pleasantly tingly.

Gabriel pulls you into his arms, and you let him pull out and push you down beneath him. You spread your knees, grateful for the pillows beneath you. You’re still riding out the waves of your aftershock when Gabriel slides back into you. He smells so perfect, and his movements are glorious. In no time at all, your desire is building and your body is responding.

Gabriel must feel your need, because he ducks down to kiss at your throat as he rolls his hips into you. “You’re never satisfied, are you?”

“Mm.” You drape an arm against his back, feeling the shift of his shoulder blades beneath warm, sweat-dampened skin. “You’re too much for me. _Ah_, you’re—” You gasp, arching up against him as Gabriel pairs a deep thrust with a kiss against your scent glands. “You’re wicked. You’re overwhelming. I want you to fuck me senseless.”

He hums, and before you can repeat your request, he’s doing just that. Gabriel slides one hand beneath your back, effortlessly lifting you in the perfect spot for him to drill you into the mattress. Your eyes roll back and your body is scorching, squeezing around him without permission.

“_Ohh_, please—”

“You sound so good,” he rasps. His mouth skims your ear, and you can feel the heat of his breath and the soft vibrations of his deep, deep growl. “I love it when you _beg_.”

You break, coming undone. Gabriel hisses, going still as you spasm and arch. When you fall back, limp and panting against the pillows, he picks up the pace again.

“Oh,” you moan, oversensitive and, somehow, still hungry for him. “Oh, you’re gonna break me, _Gabriel,_ Gabriel—”

“Ah, _fuck_,” he hisses. His hips snap into you sharply, and you pull his head close, gripping his hair and kissing his neck. He tastes salty, and you moan breathily. Gabriel grunts, and you continue kissing and mouthing at his neck. You kiss his scent glands, and he grabs you hard, yanking your hips up and slamming into you.

You squeal, dizzy with pleasure. “Oh please, _please_ Gabriel,” you babble. “Fuck me, use me, _wreck_ me.”

His movement stutters, and he spills into you with a long, low moan. You’re panting and lightheaded, but you force your eyes open. Gabriel’s face is twisted in pleasure, eyebrows arched and mouth open soft and slack. Hair clings to his forehead and temples. His skin is dark with a hot flush, and he takes a few deep, deep breaths before his eyes flutter open.

You could die on the spot. His eyes are so very, very dark. He looks pleasure-dazed and relaxed, and you waste no time in tugging him down towards you. Gabriel drapes himself over you, but you welcome the weight and heat of his body atop yours. He’s breathing hard, and you hum contentedly. You delicately brush back the damp hair at his temples, running your fingers through the inky waves until Gabriel rides out the afterglow and his breathing evens out.

“You,” Gabriel says, his voice rough and low, “are the _devil_.”

You laugh, and he nuzzles clumsily against your collarbones. He presses lazy kisses to your skin, and you wrap an arm around his neck. “Am I?”

“You have no idea what you do to me, do you?” He nestles his face against your shoulder, letting out a long, contented sigh.

“If it’s anything like what you do to me, then you are very, very welcome.”

He laughs, nuzzling you. Your toes curl happily as he scents you.

“You make me feel human,” he murmurs. He goes still, but you can still feel his warm breath just beneath your ear. “Something about you… you make me feel like I can be good. You make me want to be good.”

“You are good,” you tell him. You stoke his hair, snuggling him. “You’re good to me.”

Gabriel shifts off of you, rolling onto his side to face you. You mimic the movement, and he reaches up to cup your cheek. His entrancing eyes flicker over your face.

“I mean it,” he says softly. “You make me feel human. You make me feel like—like I’m not a monster.”

“Because you’re not.” You nuzzle into his hand, and he brushes back your hair before cradling your cheek once more.

“You deserve so much more than me. I—I want to be good to you. What can I do?” he asks quietly, quickly, as if he’s suddenly made a decision. “What can I give you? Anything you want. Tell me and you’ll have it.”

He looks so grave that you laugh, leaning in to kiss him sweetly. “Anything?”

“Anything.”

You smile, brushing his cheek. “I just want you.”

Gabriel’s expression shifts, going almost gutted before he leans in to kiss you. His lips linger against yours, so very, very gentle. “You have me.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warnings:
> 
> Minor angst, hurt/comfort.

You can feel the electric spark in the air, snapping between you and Gabriel as you walk wordlessly down the hall. You move quickly, your pattering steps barely keeping up with Gabriel’s loud, heavy strides. His cloak swishes around his calves.

Your skin tingles, and you keep your eyes straight ahead. Both you and Gabriel had stopped paying attention to the bland mission briefing ages ago, and the moment Akande released him, Gabriel began to beeline for your room. Judging by the direction, and the fact that he spent half the briefing staring at you from behind his mask, you have a pretty good idea of what he wants. And by god, do you want it too.

You’re melting, cheeks flushed and body already beginning to quake. Gabriel sweeps into the room, and you follow him past the threshold. You chase him two more steps before he whirls around, yanking off his mask and pushing you hard against the wall.

You break, grabbing him and yanking him close. You pull him down into a searing kiss, moaning as his hand slams up against the wall by your face. His lips are fierce, and his body presses against yours as he kisses you back. Your hands are all over him, sliding up his neck, under his jaw, through his hair, against the back of his head—

Gabriel’s mask clatters to the ground, and he grabs your thighs, hoisting you up. You blindly wrap your legs around him, holding his face and refusing to break the scorching kiss.

Gabriel grunts, and you feel the brief pressure of his teeth against your lip. His tongue slides into your mouth and you moan again, one arm around his shoulders as you cradle his jaw. Clawed fingers squeeze and tease at your legs, and you kiss him harder as your body goes hot enough to hurt.

Gabriel fumbles with his gloves, clumsily dropping them to the ground and pressing you back against the wall. Your lungs burn and you pull back just enough for a gasp of breath. You’re aflame with wanting, but you can only stare down into Gabriel’s face as a string of saliva breaks between your mouths.

His lips are wet and glistening, parted wonderfully as he breaths just a little hard. His eyes are half-lidded, dark as heaven. He’s looking up at you with a brutal mix of pure lust and wild affection.

“Look at what you do to me,” he breathes, before ducking to press a dozen kisses to your throat. “You drive me crazy.”

“Me?” you gasp, tugging his hair. “You don’t—_oh_!” You bite your lip as his hips grind up against you. “You’re terrible, terrible—”

Gabriel nips your earlobe, kissing your temple. His lips brush your ear as he tugs off his belts with the tantalizing hiss of leather. “You menace,” he says. “Why can’t I keep my hands off you?”

He dives on you with a flurry of bone-melting kisses, and you’re putty in his hands as you both clumsily strip down. The past couple days have been a blur of sex, slipping off to the bedroom between meetings or after training exercises. Gabriel’s restraint seems to have gone out the window, and you’re all too happy to find yourself underneath him, or in his lap, or up against the wall. He feels like euphoria, and the second he looks at you with that lingering stare, you’re on fire.

Your thighs squeeze around his hips as Gabriel pushes into you. His hands are strong on your body, and your fingernails dig into his back as he drives you to ecstasy. Only once you’ve come apart three separate times do you finally collapse into bed, well-fucked and satisfied, with Gabriel’s body draped lazily beside yours.

He watches you warmly, and you smile, nestling into the pillow. You can see where you’ve left hickeys on his neck, and the sight makes you want to add more.

Gabriel reaches out, his thumb brushing over your cheek. He sighs a low breath, letting his arm fall loosely over your side. His gaze flickers over your face and the corner of his mouth twitches upwards with contentment.

“Tired?”

“Very.” You snuggle close to his chest, but not so close you can’t see his eyes. “You never go halfway.”

He laughs softly, making your chest thrill with giddy sparks. Every time, his smiles strike through you.

“You seemed bored at the meeting,” he says. “Thought I’d cheer you up.”

This time you’re the one who laughs. “And you think the way to do that is by getting your hands all over me?”

“Mm, you’re right.” He leans over, kissing your shoulder, then your neck, then your cheek. He smirks. “Maybe it was to cheer _me_ up.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Am I?” His eyebrow quirks.

You wrinkle your nose, tucking one hand under your cheek. “You told Akande you couldn’t stay for the next briefing because you had important business.”

“I did,” he replies, looking genuinely offended. “You’re important business.”

“And you just couldn’t wait to do me,” you add quickly. It’s worth it to see his eyes glimmer with amusement in the second before he kisses you.

“Not with you smelling so good two feet away from me.”

“Did I really?” you gush, and Gabriel kisses your shoulder.

“You always do. Just perfect.”

You hum, brushing some hair off his forehead. You love how affectionate he gets, showering you in gentle touches after the passion burns through. You like how he doesn’t even seem to notice the way he’s absently stroking your upper thigh, like he instinctively wants to mark you, to keep a hold of you, to prove you’re his.

\--

Something wakes you during the night. You have no idea what time it is, but the world is pitch black, with only a weak sliver of the moon peeking through the bedroom window. It’s either very late or very early, and you’re still sluggish with sleep. You nuzzle back into your pillow, into the heaviness of rest, but a dull _wrongness_ prickles your awareness.

You can feel the weight pressed into the bed beside you, but there’s no warmth of Gabriel’s body snuggled up against yours. His arm isn’t resting against your side. That in itself wouldn’t worry you, but then you hear the tiny, muffled noise from beside you, and suddenly you’re wide awake.

You hold your breath, listening, and you feel the barest shift in the bed before there’s another sound. This time it’s a soft whimper of pain.

“Gabriel?” Your voice is quiet and bleary with sleep.

You feel him flinch, and the only sound is his loud, uneven breathing as he tries to stay quiet. Your breath aches in your lungs, feathers past your lips. You can’t feel the warmth of Gabriel’s body behind yours.

“Alpha?” you murmur.

“Go back to sleep,” he rasps. His voice is low and ragged, growling painfully deep in his chest. It’s tight, strained with obvious pain, and you’re instantly buzzing with worry. You can smell it now, the singed, electric agony.

“You’re hurting,” you whisper, rolling over to face him in the darkness. You can only see the vague shape of his hunched back, but the shadows look weird. Off.

“Go back. To sleep.” He heaves the words out like it hurts to speak.

The worry goes to a cold, hard, choking panic. You sit up, gently reaching out to rest a comforting hand on his shoulder. When your fingers pass through his shoulder, pulling away shadows, you yelp.

Gabriel flinches, curling up even tighter. You’re starting to choke on the terror swelling in your chest. It’s getting hard to breathe properly.

“Gabriel?”

He doesn’t reply, and you bite your lip, frightened. “I’m going to turn on the light, okay?” You slip out of bed, and you hear no protest—just a low, brittle wheeze. Your hands shake as you fumble for the lights, and you blink rapidly when the brightness stings your eyes. Somehow, having the lights on feels better.

You move back to the bed, where Gabriel is buried beneath the blankets. He’s pulled them up to his face, but even seeing the back of his head, you know something’s wrong. Thick curls of black smoke are trailing off of him, and you trace them back to deep wounds in his neck and scalp. But the wounds look wrong; they’re a bright, unnatural red, and they aren’t bleeding. They’re pouring smoke, and as you watch, one of them closes and a fresh patch of skin begins to peel away, darkening and splitting open in a harsh red slash.

You sit down carefully on the bedside, leaning over. You barely rest your hand atop where you think his shoulder would be, and you feel him flinch. Tendrils of dark smoke pour into the air before dissipating.

“What’s wrong?” you ask. “Are you—should I get a medic? I—I can—”

“No,” he chokes. “I’m fine.”

“You… are _not _fine!” Your voice pitches up to hysterical, but you can’t help it. You’re frantic now. “You’re in pain, and you’re—you’re—”

“Dying.”

He grinds out the single word, and your heart stops. _Dying_? No.

“No.” You can feel hot tears prickling up in your eyes. No, no, no, he can’t be dying, this can’t be _happening_ and you need to run and get help, get a medic—

Gabriel chokes, coughs, wheezes out a pained breath.

“I’ll get help,” you blurt out. You’re about to jump to your feet and run screaming to the nearest doctor, but a hand flashes out and grabs your wrist. You glance down, startled first by the cold touch, then the sight of it. Gabriel’s hand is half-smoke, fingers tapering into smoky black talons. His knuckles are torn open, all the old scars bright red, bleeding black smoke. His fingers twitch, sliding off of your wrist and falling weakly to the blankets. You watch his fingers tighten into a fist as Gabriel makes another pained sound, and the smoke thickens before his fist goes limp.

“What’s wrong?” you whisper, eyes wet. You’re terrified. You’re sick with worry. Seeing him in such pain makes you want to vomit.

“Can’t help. She’ll send you back.”

The blankets have moved slightly, and now you can see his shoulder, scars opening into vivid wounds. His throat bleeds too, sickening gashes torn open. One wound cuts straight through a bruise you kissed into his skin hours earlier.

You sob, pressing a hand to your mouth to stifle it. Your stomach knots, and the complete fright and anguish is making it hard not to be sick. “What can I do?” you plead. “Something—_anything_.”

Gabriel sucks in a few long, shuddering breaths. “Go back to sleep. I’ll leave.”

“Leave?”

“You should rest.”

“Leave where? To the med bay?”

“Give you space. To sleep. So I won’t wake you.”

“No,” you snap, grabbing a fistful of the covers. “You’re not leaving so I can _sleep_! Like hell I’m going back to sleep while you’re in _pain_—”

“It’ll pass,” he wheezes.

“Why are you hiding from me?”

A flinch, and Gabriel shudders against a bout of pain. “Not something you should see.”

“Fine,” you say, slipping under the covers. “Then I won’t look.” You close your eyes as you reach for him, and Gabriel makes a strangled noise when you press up against his back. His body is cold, and you can feel him _shaking_. When he doesn’t pull away, you reach up to wrap your arm around his chest, splaying your hand over his heart. The cold seems to leech into you, pulling the heat from your body, but you refuse to budge.

“Stop,” Gabriel breathes. “Stop!” He rips away from you, and the sapping cold disappears. You watch as he lurches out of bed, staggers, keels over and falls hard to one knee. His breath rattles.

“Did I hurt you?” you whisper, crawling over to the edge of the bed when he doesn’t reply. “Gabriel…?”

He looks up at you, and your mind stutters. It’s his face, but it isn’t. His face is marred with the same smoking wounds, but that’s not what startles you. The entire left half of his face is torn to pieces. The large scar is split open in multiple places, flashing jagged rows of wicked fangs, ingrown and savage, stretching high up his jaw. His eyes flash vivid red, and you do mean _eyes_. One regular set, dripping black tears down his cheeks. And slashes of scarlet eyes over his forehead, splitting open like wounds, some tearing open into smoking cuts before vanishing, peeping open elsewhere. The front of his throat is split open in three long, deep wounds that pour thick smoke into the air.

You can smell his anguish as a thick black line of tears drips down his face. He lowers his head.

“Thought I could hold on longer. Didn’t want you to see this. Thought I could pretend for a little longer.”

“What’s happening?” you ask quietly.

Gabriel coughs, and his whole body shakes violently. Even with his head bowed, all of his eyes squeeze shut as he groans in pain.

You swallow, scrambling off the bed and down onto you knees in front of him. You reach out gently, touching his shoulder. Gabriel flinches and you draw back quickly, hand clutched to your chest.

“Did I hurt you?”

He shakes his head without looking up.

The awful panic in your chest splinters, and tears spill down your cheeks as you sniffle. “What do I do? What’s wrong? How do I help you?”

Gabriel groans, shuddering. A long, viscous gash opens up along his chest. You want to scream. Watching impossible injuries tear open his body, with no way to stop it… you want to scream, you want to cry, you want to tear out the spike of agony driving deep into your heart.

“Tell me what to do,” you beg. You’re going crazy, drowning in the scent of Gabriel’s agony.

“Nothing. Sleep.”

You break, and you collapse against him. You wrap your arms around him as some desperate, frantic instinct tells you to hold on to him, to keep him with you, to hold him together. Immediately, the cold seeps into your bones. Gabriel hisses, grabbing your arms, but your body is locked tight with ice and he’s weak with pain. Your skin goes cold, and your bones coat over with frost. You start to shiver as your body goes weak, weak, weak…

Gabriel yanks you off with sudden strength, and you collapse against the floor as your body gives out on you.

“I told you _not to do that_!” he snarls, and you smell his anger-fear-panic as he reaches out and pulls you upright. You glance to where he holds you, and his hand is no longer tipped in smoking talons. His knuckles are still split with red wounds, but some of them have closed, and they’re not pouring thick smoke. You glance up, and half of Gabriel’s strange eyes have disappeared. The mess of his face has smoothed over somewhat, exposed teeth even instead of jagged, much more natural.

“Don’t force your energy into me,” Gabriel growls, shaking your shoulders. “I told you, I’m _dying_. I’ll drain you.”

“What do you mean, you’re dying?” Your heart is frantic, like you’ve just been electrocuted. You feel just a little dizzy.

“My body is made of nanites,” he explains rapidly. “Sometimes they forget how I’m supposed to look, and they rip me apart and reform my body over and over until they remember.” Smoke peels off of his cheek, and his teeth go jagged again. His voice shifts back to gruff, and the wheeze of hurt returns. “My body is dying. But with the nanites, I can’t truly die.”

“How did I help?” you demand. “How did I make it better?”

Gabriel pulls back, releasing you. “Energy settles them. Helps keep them solid.”

“So let me help!” You reach for him, but Gabriel snarls.

“I can’t die, but you can. I’ll drain you.”

“Let me help at least a little,” you plead, but Gabriel grits his teeth and hunches over.

“Can’t. It won’t last.”

“What can I do, then? Let me _help_ you. I can’t stand to just _watch you suffer_!”

He closes his eyes, swaying before leaning against the bedframe. Your heart breaks.

“Let me help you back into bed, at least.”

Gabriel doesn’t protest, and he lets you take his arm. He’s heavy and weak, but you clumsily manage to get him back into bed. He collapses with a moan, and you bite your lip, watching as the pain flashes across his unnatural face in pulses.

You pull the blanket up, tucking it around his shoulders. Gabriel looks up at you through slitted red eyes.

“I’ll get you tea,” you say. Your mouth moves before your mind catches up. “Something warm, to help with the pain. I can get you medicine, and food. You need to eat.”

Gabriel whimpers, and your heart shatters further. You stroke a hand over his hair. He looks so small, curled up with his eyes shut tight as his body is wracked with fierce torment. You want to protect him more than anything. The fact that you can’t shield him from this is driving you crazy, and you grit your teeth at the frustrated fury.

“I’ll get something to help. I’ll be right back, okay? Just rest.”

Gabriel hardly seems conscious, and you brush back his hair before getting to your feet. You throw on a jacket and shoes, sparing one last glance to Gabriel before you slip out of the room.

You haven’t been out alone, not since you were attacked, but you can’t bring yourself to be afraid. Right now all you care about is Gabriel, suffering, waiting for you to help him in any way you can.

You go for the cafeteria first. It’s very early, and very empty, but there are still one or two people milling about. You head straight for the counter, tracking down the hot water and making a piping hot chamomile tea. There’s soup, a clear broth with noodles, and you fill a bowl before securing a lid on it.

You’re so preoccupied that you don’t notice the presence slink up behind you until you turn around to see two distantly familiar faces. Agent Kowalski and agent Hansen. They’re standing there, arms crossed and scowling, but you have no time for this.

“You finally smell like Reaper’s toy,” Kowalski mutters. “He must have finally found a use for—”

Your fury surges. You couldn’t care _less_ about these two assholes, and they’re standing in front of you, blocking your way, and while they’re wasting your time Gabriel is in _pain_. Your alpha is suffering, and these two idiots are stopping you from bringing him any relief.

Your temper flares, and the snarl that leaves you is fiercer than anything you’ve ever heard. “Get the _fuck _out of my way.”

The men flinch, startled, and Hansen immediately takes two steps back. You’re ready to tear them to pieces, to launch yourself at their throats and spill their guts across the floor if they don’t get out of your way _immediately_, and you must be giving off a scent that says as much, because the two cooks are gaping and even Kowalski takes a step back.

“What the fu—”

You storm past him, shouldering him out of the way. Your only thought is that your alpha needs you. Your alpha needs you, and you’ll slaughter anyone who dares to stand in your way.

No one stops you as you leave the cafeteria. No one stops you in the halls. Nothing stops you until you’re back at Gabriel’s side, brushing away the hair stuck to his forehead with feverish sweat.

“I brought tea and soup,” you murmur, and it takes so very long to coax him upright. You cradle him against your shoulder, making sure to get some food into him before you let him lie back down. He’s miserable, trembling and feverish, and it makes you want to cry.

“Do you need medicine?”

“Won’t help,” he rasps, and you tuck his head into your lap, petting his hair until he falls asleep. You stay awake as the sun bleeds into the room, and you stay awake as your eyes start to burn with exhaustion. Every time Gabriel winces or moans, you tense with the urge to ease his pain. He sleeps fitfully, but you refuse to rest. You feel better keeping watch over him. Finally, when someone knocks at the door, you slide Gabriel’s head from your lap.

You hesitate, but the knocking returns and you’re worried it will wake Gabriel, so you answer it with a hiss and a glower. Sombra stares back at you with wide, wide eyes.

“Oh. Hey. Gabe isn’t answering his com and he missed a meeting. Akande wants me to yell at him.”

You growl, and Sombra registers your unwelcoming demeanour with raised eyebrows.

“He’s sick. He’s not working today.”

“Sick?” Sombra’s eyebrows pull together and she frowns. “Oh. He’s having an episode?”

You blink at her. “You know about it?’

She nods. “I’ve seen it once or twice. It seems really rough.”

“What do I do?” you ask, and your voice cracks. “He’s been hurting all night.”

Sombra shakes her head. “He’ll get better in a few days. Don’t worry about—”

“A few _days_?” You’re frantic all over again. “He’s _in pain_. I can’t—I can’t just—” You can’t breathe. Gabriel’s hurting so badly, and there’s nothing you can do, and you’re _useless_. He’s in _agony_, and he’s _suffering_, and you’re _useless_.

“Whoa, whoa, hey,” Sombra says quickly. “Don’t freak out. It’s happened before. He’s down for a few days before he’s back to normal. It’ll be fine.”

You’re having trouble getting enough oxygen. You feel lightheaded, and like you might do something drastic like break something, or burst into tears. “He’s _hurting_,” you choke, trying to get her to understand. “I can’t just do nothing! He’s my _alpha_!”

Sombra sighs, pulling a face. “Listen, I know it’s hard for you, but don’t get too upset about it. Gabe’ll be fine. Just—get him tea or something.”

“I did. It didn’t help.”

“Listen,” she relents. “This is just something you have to wait out. I wish I could help—I’ve seen how rough it is for him—but there’s nothing anyone can do. Just give it some time.” She tries a smile. “I’ll tell Akande not to bother him for a few days.”

You retreat back to Gabriel to find him awake, squinting at you through the pain.

“Who was it?”

“Sombra.” You slip into bed, brushing your fingers over his cheek. Gabriel flinches, looking away, and you pause. “Does it hurt when I touch you?”

“No.”

“Then why are you pulling back?”

Gabriel winces, and then he relaxes, defeated. His eyes close, and you see him swallow as the teeth on his cheek shift. “I didn’t want you to see me like this,” he forces out. “It was selfish. But I wanted to pretend I wasn’t a monster. Wanted you to look at me like that just a bit longer.”

“Like what?” you whisper.

“Like you loved me.”

You kiss him. It’s gentle, sweet, a simple brush of your lips against his. His breath hitches sharply, and his eyes fly open in a flash of red, and you brush your thumb along his bottom lip.

“I do love you.”

He stares at you with wide eyes before his body shudders in pain. He groans, blinking weakly against the light. “I’m a _monster_. Look at me, [Y/N].”

You stroke his cheek, studying the many eyes, the red wounds, the mess of his cheek. “You’re my alpha. You’re my Gabriel. I’ve told you before, I don’t care what you look like. You’re not a monster.”

“I’m not _human_.”

“You’re not a _monster_. And if you are, well, I don’t care. You’re mine and I love you.” You kiss him, lingering a moment before looking into his eyes. “I _love_ you, Gabriel. I don’t care if you have seven eyes, or sharp teeth, or smoke coming out of your shoulder. How many times do I have to tell you that I’m not running away from you?”

Gabriel twitches, and this time you cradle him close to your body, wrapping him in an embrace. “You’re mine. You promised me. And I’m not going anywhere.”

Gabriel makes an awful, choking sound, and thick, cold tears streak down against the side of your neck. You hold him close as he spasms with pain and sobs. You rub his back and stroke his hair and kiss the top of his head. You promise him over and over and over again that you’re not going anywhere, until his sobs subside and he falls asleep in your arms. Even in unconsciousness he flinches with pain, and only then do you let yourself start to cry.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warnings:
> 
> Angst, hurt/comfort (plus vulnerable Gabe and payoff ;) )

You sleep fitfully, hyperaware of Gabriel’s every move. You wake up at every groan, every restless twitch. By the time morning rolls around, you’re groggy and thick-headed. Your only comfort is that the sporadic sounds of pain have gotten noticeably less frequent.

When Gabriel shifts, you snuggle closer to his body. His back is to you, and you wrap one arm around him and nuzzle his shoulder. A little waft of black smoke tickles your cheek, but you ignore it. In the morning light, his wounds aren’t so bad.

“You’re awake?” he asks, voice gravelly.

You nod, kissing his shoulder. “Do you want me to get you something? Tea? Food?”

His chest expands with a deep, quiet sigh. “…Stay?”

“Of course.” You smile against his skin, cuddling close. “I’m making you eat breakfast at some point, though. And I’ll bring you more tea.”

“Mm.”

He doesn’t move, and his body is comfortably warm again. You’re starting to drift off when his fingers brush yours. He moves hesitantly, like he’s afraid you’ll pull away if you realize what he’s doing. He touches your knuckles, then your fingertips, and you let him slide his fingers between yours as he finally holds your hand.

The cautious way he moves hurts your heart. You squeeze his hand, silent and reassuring.

Gabriel stays in bed most of the day. He’s still tired, still in pain, even if it isn’t as bad as before. You fetch food and hot drinks, coaxing him into eating before you make him rest. You don’t know if it’s because of your determination, or because of Gabriel’s scent all over you, but no one bothers you in the halls or the cafeteria.

You spend the rest of your time snoozing beside Gabriel, making up for the sleepless night. You open your eyes to find him watching you, and you smile before he can look away. You’re laying on his arm, and he tenses, but you rest a hand on his bicep.

“Are you uncomfortable?”

“Aren’t you?”

You sigh, reaching out for him. You catch his chin in a light grip, forcing him to look at you. The left side of his face is no longer exposing teeth, though the scar is raw, and he only has a single pair of reddish-brown eyes.

“Why would I be?”

“You aren’t scared? You’re not disgusted?” He frowns.

“Gabriel, I’ve said it before. I’m not afraid of you.” You kiss his lips, softly. “I’m not going to run.”

His arm flexes, and he shifts you closer, cradling your head with the hand that you were using a pillow. He looks so unbearably cautious. “You really aren’t repulsed?”

You laugh. “Hardly.”

“I had—” He winces sharply, face twisting in pain before he grunts and relaxes. “I had teeth coming out of the side of my face.”

“I did notice,” you say. “You also had an unusual amount of eyes.”

“And that doesn’t freak you out?”

You consider him. “Gabriel, in all honesty, I was so much more worried about how you felt that what you looked like.”

His face goes kind of soft and broken, and you smooth your hand over his hair.

“It was hard to watch. Hard to see you in pain, and I couldn’t do anything about it…. And you’re still hurting, even if it isn’t as bad.” You bite your lip as the concern builds in your chest. “Isn’t there anything I can do? Let me give you even just a little of my energy, just to take the edge off—”

“No.” Gabriel nuzzles the side of your face and kisses your cheek. “You’re wonderful. You’ve already done more than enough. Anyone else would have run screaming by now.”

“Seriously, though, is there _any _way I can help you?”

Gabriel hums, eyes closing. His eyebrows twitch with a supressed hiss of pain, and he waits a moment before he speaks. “You have. The tea helped. Hot things are nice.”

“Hot things?” You sit up as he nods. “It helps if you’re warm?”

“Mm.”

You pull away immediately, and Gabriel makes a noise of protest. He watches through narrowed eyes as you pull the blankets up around him, scouring the room for more. You find another blanket stuffed in the wardrobe, and you drape that over Gabriel as well. He grunts, and you frown.

“I can go find some more. I’m sure Sombra—”

“It’s enough.”

You shake your head. “How about a bath? I can run you a hot bath. Would that help?”

His eyes open wider. “A bath?”

You take that as a yes. “It’ll be nice. Baths are always nice when you’re sick or sore. I’ll get it ready.”

“Mm.” He sinks back against the pillows, and you slip off to the bathroom.

You absently run the bath, sitting on the edge of the tub and watching as the shards of the mirror fog over. You remember the look on Gabriel’s face last night, when he collapsed to the ground and said that he didn’t want you to see him like that. That he was a monster.

A deep, solid ache settles into your chest. You shut off the water, padding softly back over to the bedside. Gabriel’s eyes are closed, squeezed a little tight. One eyebrow twitches, and his lips press together. A moment passes, and the expression subsides.

You lean over, pressing a lingering kiss to his temple. “I love you so very much, Gabriel. I hate that you’re hurting, but I’m here to help you. Anything you need.”

The way he looks at you makes your heart squeeze, and you swallow it down as you help him up. You hold onto Gabriel’s arm, helping him hobble to the bathroom. He’s unsteady at first, hissing and wobbling as pain surges through his limbs. You press tight to his side, coazing him into the bathroom and sitting him down on the edge of the tub. You help him undress, and insist on holding his arm until he’s in the water.

Gabriel sinks into the hot water with a deep, contented sigh. His eyes close and he slides down until his chin is just above the steam. You lean against the rim of the tub, chin atop your arm. Gabriel sighs again, and the pain eases from his features. His soft brown eyes meet yours and he smiles.

“Thank you.”

“It helps?”

He nods. “A lot.”

You grin. Your heart has gone all fuzzy and warm. “Good.”

“You really are amazing,” Gabriel murmurs. “You’ve seen me like that… you saw me at my worst, and you’re still here. You’re still here, looking at me like that.”

You shake your head slightly, dipping your fingers into the water. “I’m just glad I could be here for you. I’m glad I could help. I hate seeing you suffer.”

“I love you,” he says.

You laugh, giddy and blushing and caught off guard.

“Join me?”

“Oh,” you breathe, and you really can’t say no. You strip down, sliding carefully into the tub alongside Gabriel. He steadies you, smirking, and you manage to sink into the wonderfully hot water and lay against his chest.

“Ah, this is amazing.” The heat soothes the aches from the night, and you relax until you’re boneless, toes curling in pleasure. “Mm. This was a really good idea.”

“Don’t fall asleep. I don’t need you drowning on me.”

You laugh, shifting to press a kiss to Gabriel’s neck. “I wouldn’t dare.”

Gabriel rubs your back, running his thumb delicately along your spine. “You were up most of the night because of me. Get some rest after this, hm?”

“Only if you do. You need to get better.” You yawn. Your cheek rests comfortably against Gabriel’s shoulder.

“_Querida_, I don’t deserve you,” he breathes. He nuzzles against the top of your head, kissing you. “You’re too good for me. Much too good.”

“Nuh,” you mutter.

He laughs quietly. “You deserve so much better than me. I’ll protect you. I’ll keep you safe. I’ll do my best to deserve you.” He holds you close, skin warm against yours. You breathe in the smell of him and hot steam, relaxing into the soft, sweet comfort surrounding you.

\--

“What did I tell you about drowning?”

You groggily come back to awareness in Gabriel’s arms as he carries you over to lay you down in bed. You make a bleary noise of protest, half-asleep and craving his warmth. He laughs, and moment later he joins you.

You roll over into his embrace, breathing in the fresh smell of laundry detergent under his familiar scent. Gabriel’s strong arms wrap around you and he hums. You go limp, nuzzling his chest.

“Missed you.”

“I didn’t go anywhere,” he says.

You pull back just enough to look up at him. “I missed you being okay.”

He softens instantly, pulling you back into a hug and tucking your head beneath his chin. You snuggle into the embrace, drifting off to the steady sound of his breathing.

\--

Your dreams are heavy and hazy, all dark shadows and a strange pressure that settles deep into your bones. It makes you feel foggy, and you dream of wading through a thick, warm shadow that heats your skin and brushes hot between your legs. As you walk against the resistant shadows, your whole body begins to warm. The movement rubs a delicious friction between your thighs, and you let the growing pleasure wash over you…

You wake up as your body is flipped over, back thumping softly on the mattress as your wrist is yanked up and pinned over your head. You’re disoriented, caught between the heaviness of sleep and the spark of very real pleasure. You’re warm, all the way down through your skin and bones.

Gabriel leans over you, breathing unevenly. His cheeks are flushed dark, his hair messy, eyes dark as sin. He growls, tense, and you realize that your legs are still on either side of his thigh, pressed firmly against him.

“How am I supposed to control myself with you _grinding _on me like that?”

You feel faint, and hot. You feel so, so hot. Your body twitches at the though, and your hips shift, stealing a hint of friction from his thick thigh. The tight pleasure makes you whimper, and Gabriel growls, squeezing your wrist.

“You’re certainly something to wake up to. Grinding desperately against me and smelling so damn _irresistible_.”

He smells unbearably good, irresistibly tantalizing, and you’re so _hot_—

“Oh god,” you groan. Your head falls to the side and you rut weakly against his thigh. “It’s my heat.”

Gabriel growls low, and you shudder in bliss when he works his leg against you. “Oh? Is that right?”

“D-don’t tease me.”

He laughs, ducking so low that his breath ghost over your cheek. “Don’t tease you? After you woke me up like that?” He kisses your throat, and you moan loudly when he passionately sucks and nips at a particularly sensitive spot. Your toes curl, and you’re helpless, jerking your hips against his thigh.

“Please—”

“You wanna come just like this? Hm?” Gabriel’s teeth graze your ear. “Or do you want me to fuck you?”

“Oh, fuck me.” Your body is so painfully warm, and you nearly come right at the thought of Gabriel’s thick cock inside you. You writhe, already breaking apart at his touch, at his utterly intoxicating scent. “You smell so _good_,” you keen, and Gabriel snarls.

“Keep talking like that and I won’t be gentle.”

You grip a fistful of his hair, tugging from the roots. “I want you rough. I want you to ruin me.”

“_Shit,_” he gasps, and then he falls on you. Gabriel’s hands fly to your hips, stripping you effortlessly as he kisses you like he’s dying. It’s hot and fierce and wild, and you’re scratching over his back and arms, kissing back just as aggressively.

Gabriel shoves into you, and you cry out at the suddenness of it. It feels so unbelievably good. He forces you open, but you’re so wet and needy that he slides in easily. The abruptness of it makes you moan and clench around him, and Gabriel chokes, biting between your neck and shoulder.

You try to open your eyes, but everything is too much and with your next breath, you nearly come undone. Your mouth falls open and your eyes roll back as Gabriel slides back to the tip before thrusting hard into you.

“Oh, more, more,” you beg. “Just like that, _yes_—”

Gabriel grabs your hip hard, and the bruising grip feels so damn good. You lock your legs around him, and that’s about as much as you can manage. Gabriel’s hand curls around your thigh, and he fucks you hard and fast and perfect.

You can barely breathe, stuttering and whining and moaning as he slams into you. The slap of skin is almost as loud as your cries. Gabriel snarls, and you cling to him as your whole body begins to tremble. The tensions builds inside you, and you can feel your release coming too hard and too fast. Gabriel bites your neck, thrusting deep into you, and your orgasm slams through you.

You shatter, crying out loudly as your back arches hard. Your whole body is shaking as white-hot pleasure blindsides you. You can’t breathe for a long moment, and when you collapse against the bed, you’re lightheaded and your skin is tingling, and you can feel the slightest chill of sweat at the back of your neck and at your temples.

Gabriel has gone still, and when you flutter open your eyes, you see the way he’s looking at you. Pleased, adoring, _hungry_. Your thighs fall open for him, and a slow, wicked smirk curls his lip.

“I swear you’re gonna kill me,” he says, and then he pulls out of you and pushes your knees wide.

You cry out once more when Gabriel’s mouth drops between your legs. His tongue slips through your soaking folds, and you shiver, gripping his hair and losing control. Gabriel eats you out with an expertise you can hardly grasp, and within minutes you’re breathing all high-pitched and gaspy, on the verge of a second orgasm.

“Gabriel,” you wail. “I’m gonna come, I’m gonna— _ah_!” Your nerves electrify, and you can hardly feel anything but the euphoric rush that leaves you weak and buzzing. You’re breathing hard, and Gabriel is also panting when he climbs over you and begins to place wet, laving kisses all against your neck. He sucks dark bruises into your throat, and you moan weakly.

“Did you come?” you ask, and he laughs.

“Judging by the way you smell right now, I won’t have to wait long.”

His words send a spark through you, and the stirrings of heat are already beginning to build. You whimper, clinging to Gabriel as he lovingly marks your skin. Your heat hit so hard and so sudden, and your body wars between exhaustion and arousal.

“Gabriel…”

He pauses. “Too much?”

You shake your head. “It’s really strong this time.”

He kisses your cheek, and then your lips. His mouth is damp with your slick, and you grimace at the taste, but kiss him eagerly. He kisses you almost lazily, deep and slow. You press into the kiss, molding your body against his. Gabriel murmurs into your mouth, and you let him pull back enough to speak.

“You’re hellishly tempting, but you haven’t had breakfast yet.” He sighs, kissing your collarbone. “You need some serious calories if we’re gonna keep this up.”

You whimper, thighs rubbing together. The need is growing, and you’re beginning to fantasize about his thick length back inside you. He fucks you so good, he’s addictive. You crave him like a drug. Your head falls back and you whine.

“_Gabriel_.”

“Fuck,” he hisses. “Food first. I don’t want you passing out on me.”

You moan as he pulls away, but Gabriel pushes you back down on the bed when you try to catch him.

“Stay here. Stay warm. I’ll be right back.”

“Don’t go,” you plead, and he almost hesitates.

“You took care of me,” he says, catching your chin to kiss you quickly. “Now it’s my turn to take care of you.”

“But I—”

“I’ll get you something to eat, and then I’ll fuck you until you can’t walk.” He pins you with a sharp look. “Believe me, I don’t want to leave you. But I can’t fuck your brains out if you faint.”

You whine, but you fall back amid the tangled pile of blankets as Gabriel throws on clothing. You study the wonderful curve of his back, smugly watching as he pulls his pants up over his hard, straining bulge. He shoots you one last glance before slipping quickly out of the room.

You loll back against the pillows. You’re a mess, catching on fire once more even as your slick runs down your thighs. Your body is twitching, constantly asking for your alpha. You crave him like a drug, and you roll over to muffle your noises in the pillows when it all becomes too much. Your fingers slip between your legs and you rock your hips into your hand. It’s nowhere near enough, but you succeed in making yourself a shuddering, moaning mess by the time Gabriel returns. He steps back in the room to find your knees spread wide, ass in the air as you try to work yourself to another orgasm.

“Impatient,” he growls, coming up behind you. His clothes are off instantly, and you push back into his hands when they touch your skin.

“_Please_.”

“Please what?” he asks. His voice is deep and smooth as syrup. “Please eat you out until you’re screaming? Please fuck you until you can’t walk? Please finger you until you can’t see straight?”

You arch your back, muffling your whines in the pile of pillows. “Everything.”

You aren’t sure if he managed to hear you, or if one look at you was enough to convey your desires. Either way, Gabriel grabs your hips and pushes deep into you. He thrusts a few times, hissing.

“Ah, you’re so damn perfect.” He nuzzles and kisses at your neck, and your toes curl at the attention to your scent glands. “I’m so _lucky_.”

You cry out at a particularly wonderful snap of his hips, and Gabriel braces his hands on either side of you, boxing you in with his body. His cheek presses to your back, and his nose and mouth rest against your neck. He’s scorching, and he’s so _close_, you can’t smell anything but him—

His desire is overwhelming. He’s _overwhelming_, and you shudder and crack and break apart, coming undone once more. You’re trembling as your skin flushes hot and cool, the most incredible fever in the world.

Gabriel pulls out of you, and before you collapse, you’re in his arms. He sweeps you up, and he makes it two stumbling steps before he shoves you up against the wall. You wrap around him, a tangle of legs and arms, and Gabriel groans as he lowers you down onto his length.

“Fuck, you’re gonna send me into a rut,” he moans, and his forehead thumps against the wall at your shoulder as he pants. You clench around him. You can’t seem to stay still. Even though he’s breathing hard and you want to let him catch his breath, your body shivers like you’ve been electrocuted. Your fingers wont stop kneading at his shoulder blades. Your hips wont stop pushing down against him.

Gabriel pulls his head back. The look in his eyes slays you, and your racing heart skips a beat. Gabriel’s gaze drops to your mouth, and that’s your only warning before he’s kissing you.

You melt into him, a raging inferno of eager, helpless need. Your hands slide over his neck, his hair, his jaw, his shoulders, unable to stop. His lips are heaven and hell all in one, and you die and die and die beneath them. His touch is ecstasy and his tongue is nirvana, and when he flattens you to the wall with a deep kiss, you lose yourself.

You lose track of everything. Time stops existing. All you know is the endless feeling of Gabriel’s kiss, the damp warmth of his lips, the soft and hard press, the tidal shift of push and pull. He’s all over you, completely out of control, but you broke long ago. You lose yourself in him, dissolving under his lips as his hips bring you to an almost painful edge. The tension steals your breath, and you start to tremble long before you reach the peak. Gabriel’s lips are so very soft, and your head starts to swim and the edges of your visions darken slightly. You ears buzz, and your cheeks are wet, and your head thumps back against the wall as Gabriel kisses your neck and you snap.

The painful pleasure breaks over you. You can’t breathe, and your body isn’t your own for a very long time. The intense climax slams over you, pushes you underwater, leaves you floundering for a moment until you come gasping back to the surface. You’re dizzy and weak, but the ringing disappears. The last of your energy leaves you and you slump weakly against Gabriel, head lolling against his shoulder as he holds you.

Gabriel’s breath rasps in and out. The long stretch of silence is broken only by your panting. When he finally moves, it’s to press a kiss to your temple. He straightens up, cradling you to his chest. He lays you down in bed, and you blearily collapse against the pillows.

“_Dulzura_,” he murmurs, curling against you and pulling the blankets over you. You press into his body, grateful for the strong arms that wrap around you, holding you in one piece. He reaches up to brush tears from your cheeks.

“Are you alright?”

You force your eyes open just a sliver at the concern in his voice. You manage a weak nod. “A lot. It’s a lot. ‘M fine. Tired.” You return to darkness as you nuzzle into Gabriel’s chest. “Good to me. You’re so good to me.”

“I brought you food,” he says, and then laughs quietly. “I was supposed to feed you first. Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” you breathe.

“Hey.” Gabriel shakes you a little bit. “Eat something before you sleep. I… kind of ran you ragged there.” He sounds abashed, and you blindly kiss him. You miss, catching the edge of his mouth, but you correct it. You’re so unbearably tiered, you doubt you could even lift your head.

“After.”

“[Y/N]…”

“I’m so tired,” you whisper, and he relents.

“I should have held back.” He sighs, stroking a hand down your back. “I can’t control myself around you. You drive me absolutely insane.” He tucks your head beneath his chin. “You’re perfect.”

You’re already drifting off, and Gabriel’s quiet words are half lost in dreams as he holds you close.

“You’ve seen me at my worst and you’re still here. You make me believe that maybe I’m not a lost cause. If you see something worth loving in me, then maybe….” His fingers stroke gently through your hair. “I love you. More than anything. You’re an angel, you know. If you can love me, then maybe I’m not damned.”


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's fairly short, mostly a set-up for what comes next.

You wake up to Gabriel’s face between your legs, caught between dreams of sweat and fevered skin and the reality of the pleasure tight inside you. You come on his tongue before you can do more than stammer a dazed question. The bliss tingles over your skin and you’re slightly breathless, dazed and dizzy in the best way. Your bones feel heavy and light at the same time, like waking up after a long rest.

Gabriel crawls back up to press a kiss to the corner of your jaw. He looks a little shamefaced. “Sorry. I should have woken you up to ask—”

“It’s fine,” you laugh, tugging him close for a kiss. You linger against his lips, smiling. “It’s nice. Besides, I think you deserve it after putting up with having me all over you for two days straight.”

He relaxes, nuzzling your temple and your ear. “You smell so good I couldn’t resist. And you were moaning in your sleep.”

“I was dreaming about you.” You squeal when he wetly kisses you neck, laughing and tugging him close to pepper light kisses against his hairline and his temples. He smells good, and you nuzzle the curls of hair just above his ears.

“Good,” he hums, and you grin.

You brush your fingers through his hair. You like the way the dark locks fall back to his forehead even after you move them away. It’s endearingly adorable, and it looks roguishly charming when paired with the amused look in his dark eyes. You blush a little, embarrassed to be caught fawning like that, and you cut off any comment by leaning in to kiss him.

Gabriel laughs against your lips. The deep rumble fills your chest with honey, and you melt as he pulls you closer with an arm around your waist.

“You’re adorable.”

“I was gonna say that,” you admit, and he scoffs.

“How dare you. I’m tough and intimidating.”

He says it with the most relaxed half-smile, and your heart turns into a puddle that drops down through your ribs and makes your insides warm and gooey. You can’t help but kiss him again.

“Of course you are.” You punctuate your words with kisses. “Tough. And Intimidating.” You pause to catch his chin, leveling him with a grave look. “And cute.”

“_Cute_?” he growls, and you yelp amid your laughter as he rolls you onto your back. “Do you know who I am?”

Gabriel pins your wrists above your head as he kisses you. Despite his growling, he can’t completely hide his smile, and you can’t stop giggling as he attempts to kiss you into submission.

“So cute,” you coo, and you’re rewarded with a flurry of ticklish kisses all over your face and neck. You squirm, squealing, but Gabriel doesn’t let you go.

“I’m an expert tactician and an experienced mercenary. Some say terrorist.”

“You’re a big weenie,” you shoot back, shrieking when Gabriel blows a wet raspberry against your neck. “Get off! You’re _disgusting, _I take it _back_—” You thrash, breaking down into shrieks of laughter as Gabriel refuses to let up, retaliating by lightly ticking at your sides.

You reflexively try to knee him off, and Gabriel drops his weight down on you, letting up on the attack. You wheeze, and he nuzzles your neck, ticking your skin with the slight scratch of his beard.

“Oh, you’re the _worst_. You weight a ton.”

“It’s pure muscle.”

“It’s condensed idiocy,” you retort.

Gabriel laughs, and you wriggle against him, although you aren’t really trying to dislodge him. He props himself up on one elbow, looking down at you, and your heart kind of stutters. The way he’s looking at you is so soft. You’ve never seen his expression so unguarded, with the unconscious smile lingering on his lips and the tender gleam in his eyes. He looks at you with an unbearable fondness, and the sweet domesticity of it makes you go stupid. Suddenly this is something you can see for the rest of your life. Waking up beside Gabriel, kissing him good morning and laughing as he teases you. Waking up to him looking at you like _that_, with no worry, no concern, just that open, innocent warmth.

“My god, I love you,” you breathe.

Gabriel blinks quickly, caught off guard. You shake your head, smiling up at him. You can feel the heat of his body, the gentlest touch of his fingers on your waist.

“You make me very, very happy.”

Gabriel’s face goes all vulnerable, and you bite your lip, worried that you ruined the moment.

“I don’t expect anything from you. I just want you to know that I’m so happy right now, and this is perfect, and if you keep looking at me like that, I don’t think I’ll ever need anything else—”

You don’t finish your rambling thoughts, because Gabriel silences you abruptly with his mouth on yours. He kisses you hard and fast, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear before he can press his lips to yours. He deepens the kiss, slowing it down to something intense and tantalizing. You’re insensible beneath him, eyes closed and responding to his every touch. You’re completely lost in him.

Gabriel finally breaks the kiss, and you peer up at him in a daze. He licks his lips, one hand cupping your cheek.

“You’re happy?” he asks softly.

It takes you a moment to gather yourself, but you smile and nod. “I’m really happy right now. I’m happy with you.”

Gabriel kisses your forehead. His breath whispers against your skin. “Good. Stay that way. I want that.” He gives your hip a little squeeze. “I want to see you happy. More than anything, I want to see you smile like that.”

“If you’re with me, it won’t be hard.”

Gabriel laughs, and he kisses your forehead once more. “Always have to one-up me, don’t you?” He kisses you to silence your response, and you give in, pulling him close. All you want is to lose yourself in him.

Sadly, you don’t get the chance. Just as you’re starting to melt into the bedsheets, someone pounds at the door. You don’t notice it at first, lost as you are in Gabriel’s touch. At first you think the thumping might be your pounding heart, but then Gabriel growls and kisses you harder, and you realize that you’re being interrupted.

He pulls back with a grunt, and you giggle at the expression on his face. He looks thoroughly pissed off. You sit up with him, leaning over to touch his shoulder and kiss his neck.

“You better get that.”

“We could ignore it.”

“What if it’s important?” you hedge. You lean over the edge of the bed to pick up your discarded shirt. Gabriel sighs, but he gets up and throws you your pants. The knocking continues as you hurriedly dress, and Gabriel storms over to the door, practically cracking the keypad with how hard he’s typing in the code. You can’t help a smile at his dramatics, made even more amusing by the ominous cloak and garb of the ruthless mercenary.

The door swishes open, and the intruder groans loudly, pushing past Gabriel and into the room.

“_Finally_! You know you could answer your com once in a while. Akande’s pissed that you—oh.”

Sombra skids to a stop two steps in. Her nose wrinkles slightly. You give her a little wave, and her face cycles through half a dozen different expressions before settling on something like resignation.

“You could have told me you were fucking. I’d have waited instead of knocking like a complete asshole.”

“What do you want?” Gabriel asks, and his voice is flat and gruff behind the mask.

You fight a smile as you picture the pouty irritation on his face.

Sombra winces and retreats the two steps back to the threshold. “You should crack a window. It smells pretty condemning in here.”

Gabriel growls, threatening.

You wander up behind his shoulder, offering Sombra a smile. You should feel embarrassed, but you don’t. You feel a little proud. Gabriel is your alpha, and everyone should know. They should be able to smell him all over you, should know he’s claimed you and you’re his, and he’s yours.

“Akande wants you,” Sombra explains. “We’ve got a mission briefing. He’s pretty mad that you completely dropped off the map for the last few days.”

“I was busy.”

“Busy,” Sombra repeats flatly. She looks to you.

“It’s true,” you say. “He really was.”

“Gross.” She grins. “I’m telling Amélie she had to organize ten thousand bullets by herself because you were getting laid.”

“_Sombra_,” Gabriel warns.

Sombra rolls her eyes. “I’m _joking_. You know she doesn’t care about your sex life anyways. Hurry up and come with me, Akande’s waiting and you owe me after making me walk in here.”

“No one invited you in,” Gabriel reminds her.

“Please, who needs an invitation? Let’s _go_.”

Gabriel sighs, but he shifts in her direction and glances back to you. “I’ll be back within the hour.”

“Oh, they’re coming too,” Sombra says.

Gabriel stares at her. “What?”

She shrugs. “Akande will explain it. Come on.”

Gabriel shoots you a glance, but you can’t read it behind the mask. You just raise your eyebrows and follow after as Sombra leads the way with Gabriel close to your side.

You arrive in the office to find Akande, Moira, and Amélie already seated. You narrow your eyes at the doctor, but you hold back more than a spike of dislike. Sombra skips ahead of you and flops into a chair with a dramatic groan.

“You’re late,” Akande greets.

“Not my fault.” Sombra props her feet up on the table as she scoots her chair back. “I was knocking on the door for five minutes straight.”

Akande looks to Gabriel for an explanation, or an excuse. Gabriel just stares back at him.

“What’s the mission?”

You struggle not to let your amusement show. It’s so strange to see how prickly he is with others now that you’ve seen how sweet he is when he lets his guard down. You have a feeling most of his standoffishness is for show.

Akande sighs, but focuses down on the holopad in front of him. “We’ve gathered some intelligence on that omnic insurgence group that had been causing trouble. The one that Desmond Flint was involved with.”

“Him again?” Sombra groans. “I thought it would be done once we took him out.”

“Flint was only one backer,” Gabriel says. “The group is still alive, although we took out a major source of financial support.”

“Exactly,” Akande continues. “With Flint out of the picture, the group is suffering financially. Their security is not as good as it used to be, either, and we’ve managed to find a leak and track down another key backer.”

With a swipe of his fingers, Akande calls up a holographic image of a portly man with a full face of walrus-like whiskers. His beady eyes are framed by tiny round spectacles. He looks grandfatherly, sort of like a surly old librarian.

“This is Charles Westfield. He’s an illegal arms dealer, and he’s the one responsible for supplying the insurgence group with weapons for their rogue omnic forces. If we take him out, then the group will collapse.”

“So it’s another assassination?” Sombra asks.

Akande nods. “This one will be a bit harder than Flint.”

Sombra groans, dropping her feet off the table and pulling her chair closer. “Don’t tell me. His safehouse has _three_ heavily secure bunker doors and twice as many guards.”

“Not exactly.” Akande glances to Amélie.

“Westfield is less public than Flint was. There is no way to slip in and get him away from his armed guards. He only appears for meetings.”

Akande folds his hands on the tabletop. “Our best chance to get Westfield is by setting up a meeting with him. It will be a firefight, since he will have guards with him and he may be prepared for things to go sour, especially after Flint’s death. This mission will largely be blunt force instead of subterfuge. Reaper, you’ll be running point alongside me. We will find Amélie a spot once we have a meeting location set up with Westfield.”

“Let me guess, you want me on tech?” Sombra checks.

“Many of the weapons Westfield deals in are linked to a network that identifies biometrics. It makes them very dangerous, but it also makes them vulnerable to your interference. We may also need you as backup if things get messy.”

“Got it.”

“And I suppose I’ll be hanging back until the fighting starts?” Moira muses.

Akande nods. “I want to be prepared for the worst. If the fight goes badly, Reaper and I will need support.”

“Understood.”

You glance to Gabriel, and you notice how tense he’s gotten. It makes a flicker of anxiety come to life in your stomach.

“You said we’ll need to set up a meeting with Westfield,” Gabriel says slowly.

“Yes. It will be the only way to draw him out into the open.”

“So we’ll be posing as prospective buyers of his weapons?” Sombra asks.

Akande shakes his head. “Westfield himself does not show his face when weapons deals take place. His subordinates run that.”

“So how are we supposed to meet with him if he won’t show?”

You can smell the suspicion and anger begging to rise off of Gabriel.

Akande swipes the holopad, and a picture of Flint and Westfield smiling together with glasses of champagne in the midst of a party appears. “Westfield trades in another market as well. We suspect that he is the one that got Flint involved as a financial backer, through their relationship in the trafficking trade.”

A very quiet growl starts in Gabriel’s throat.

“In other words, the only time Westfield shows up to meetings in person is when he’s purchasing trafficking victims. He seems to be indiscriminate in his sources, but picky in his selection. That won’t matter since all we need is the initial meeting.”

You expect it when Akande’s eyes turn to you for the first time. You swallow.

Gabriel snarls, and his hands slam against the table, claws gouging into the wood. “_No_.”

All eyes are on him now, and Akande frowns.

“He only trades in omegas. [Y/N] is the only chance we have at securing a meeting with him.”

“You can tell him you have an omega without bringing [Y/N] there.”

“No, we can’t,” Amélie cuts in. “Westfield only joins the meeting once his subordinates have confirmed that the omega is present. He is a very cautious man.”

“Find a different plan,” Gabriel snaps.

“There isn’t one. This is our only option.”

“This _isn’t an option_!” Gabriel shoves back his chair and stands. “We’re going.”

You know it’s a demand for you to follow, but you hesitate. Gabriel stops, glancing over his shoulder at you. You swallow again, standing. You get to your feet, but you don’t make a move to follow him. Instead, you take a deep breath and set your jaw.

“I want to do it.”

Everyone looks startled, even Amélie. Gabriel has gone so still you can’t even tell if he’s breathing.

“I told you before. Westfield is a human trafficker. I may not agree with everything that Talon does, but taking out monsters like Westfield and Flint is something that I can get behind. And if I can help with that then it’s something I want to do.”

Gabriel stares at you, and the claws of his gloves flex at his sides. “This isn’t like with Flint. This is going to be a firefight.”

“I know.”

“You _don’t_! You’ve never been in a firefight before—”

“Yes I have. Did you forget how I got here?” You let the silence linger for a moment. “I know it’s dangerous. I’m not naïve. I know it’s _really_ dangerous. But it’s worth the risk if Westfield disappears. It’s worth the risk for everyone he’s hurting.”

“[Y/N] is right,” Akande says. “Whichever side you are on, Westfield is not a man who can continue living. We are after him for our own purposes, but he is not a good man.”

Gabriel shakes his head slowly, but Akande doesn’t stop.

“Think about it. The threat of the omnic group is worse than the fight that Westfield will give us.”

Gabriel ignores him. He looks straight at you. “I don’t want you involved.”

“I’m sorry. But this is something I want to do. This is something I’m going to do.”

His shoulders tense.

“I know what I’m getting into. Before you say anything, I _do_ understand how serious this is. I know it will be dangerous. I’m not discounting that. But people like Flint and Westfield can’t get away with what they’re doing to people. They can’t get away with abducting people and torturing them. They need to pay for that. They need to _pay_, and they need to be stopped. If I can help to stop them, then I will. I’ve made my decision.”

Gabriel’s shoulders fall, and your stomach twists. You want to reach out, but before you can, Akande claps a hand on your shoulder.

“Fantastic. You can go for now. We still have some logistics to work out before we arrange the meeting with Westfield. Once things are set, we’ll brief for the mission.”

Gabriel sweeps out of the room at the dismissal. Your stomach sinks, and you follow after with growing worry. The knot of anxiety looses somewhat when you find Gabriel waiting for you in the hall. He doesn’t speak, but he waits for you to fall in step beside him before heading back to your room.

As soon as the door closes behind you, Gabriel pulls off his mask and gloves, setting them aside with a deep sigh.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, fidgeting behind him. “I really don’t want to be at odds with you over this. But if I’m needed, I have to help.”

“Why do you have to be a hero?” Gabriel asks you. “Why do you have to risk yourself?” He turns around, and he looks so unbearably sad that your heart splinters. He steps closer, tugging you gently into his arms. “This is dangerous. You could get hurt.”

“I know. But I can’t say no when I can make the difference between Westfield hurting more people and being stopped.”

“I know.” Gabriel sighs. “I know, I know, I know. You’re too good. Everything about you is too good for me.” His arms tighten around you. “I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

He laughs, but it’s more wounded than happy. “Angel, you don’t understand.” He pulls back, hands on your shoulders as he looks you in the eye. “I’m not hurt. I’m _terrified_. I’m terrified something will happen to you. I’m afraid that I’ll look away for one second and you’ll end up on the ground.”

“We’ll have a doctor with us,” you say, reluctant to speak her name. “She’s halfway competent, at least.”

That gets a slightly more genuine laugh out of him. “She’s good at what she does.”

“So medical attention will be close by if things go badly. And I’m a little trained. I can shoot a gun, and I know some hand-to-hand combat. More than I did with the Flint operation.”

Gabriel relaxes a little, sighing. “Yeah.”

“And besides,” you add, stretching up on to your toes to kiss his cheek. “You’ll be there. We’ll watch each others’ backs.”

“Mm.”

You hesitate, biting your lip. “…Gabriel?”

“Hm?”

You reach for his hand, holding it tight. “This is something I want to do. This is something I can’t just sit back and ignore. But—this also isn’t something I know much about.” You take a deep breath. “If you really think this is a bad idea, then I’ll trust your judgement.”

He hesitates for a long moment, and then the tensions vanishes as his shoulders sink in resignation. “I hate it. I hate the idea of you being anywhere near danger. But… this insurgence group is bad news. Akande’s right that taking out Westfield will be a brutal blow. He’s a critical target, and the strike team is competent and capable. We’ve run worse missions and come out fine.” Another pause. “I hate that I’m saying this, but… we should do it. Damn it. It’s the only way to draw out Westfield. _Damn it_.”

He looks frustrated, and you kiss his cheek, giving his hand a squeeze.

“Thank you.”

“You stay with me, got it? The whole time, you stay right with me. I don’t care what Akande or anyone else tells you. Their orders don’t matter. You stay _right beside me_ the whole time, got it?”

“Got it.” You smile, and he finally relaxes, pulling you into a hug. You wrap your arms around him, letting him tug you over to flop down on the bed. Gabriel tucks you into his arm, holding you tight. You nuzzle his chest, listing to the calming rhythm of his breathing, the steady beating of his heart.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warnings:
> 
> Violence, angst.

It’s a cold night. The air tastes fresh and crisp, and the shivery chill gives you an excuse for the jacket zipped up to your chin. Gabriel had wanted you in armour, and a nearly hour-long debate followed. The final conclusion was that an armoured trafficking victim would be a dead giveaway, and even if you only need to play the part for a few minutes, those few minutes will be critical. You settled for the comfortable jacket, loose enough to hide a pair of knives holstered beneath.

You lean against the rough brick of the alleyway, rubbing your arms. Gabriel moves a little closer to you, his cloak shifting like a shadow.

“Cold?”

You shake your head. “I’m fine.”

“Nervous?” he guesses again, and you sigh.

“Just a little.”

You wish he had the mask off, so you could see his comforting expression, but you only see the inscrutable blank face. Gabriel hooks his claws against your palm, tugging your hand close enough to link his fingers with yours.

“Don’t worry. I’ll be right beside you.”

“I know.” You smile up at him. “I’m not worried about that. I’m worried I won’t be able to pull it off. It’ll be hard to pretend I’m scared when I’ve got you there with me.”

He softens, his hand curling tighter against yours. “You’ll do fine.”

Akande pulls back from the mouth of the alley and crosses over. His boots crunch on the loose gravel.

“Widowmaker and Sombra are in position. Widowmaker has eyes on Westfield’s men.”

“Is that our que?” you ask.

Akande nods. From the shadows behind you, Moira slinks up. You only shrink back a little.

“Stay here until you’re signalled,” Akande tells her.

“We’ve been over this.”

Gabriel gives your one last squeeze before slipping his hand from yours. “Let’s get this over with.”

Akande’s the one who drops a heavy hand on your shoulder, fingers curled firmly in a show of control. You’d agree ahead of time that he should be the one playing your handler, because you had a feeling Gabriel wouldn’t make you look nearly as uncomfortable. You fight not to squirm away from Akande’s grasp, letting him and Gabriel march you down two alleyways before you come upon the drop point.

The underground parking garage slopes down beneath the earth, the door wide open. The nerves kick in as the night air changes to the smell of damp concrete and grit. The temperature drops a few degrees and you shudder.

Bright fluorescent lights illuminate the space, and when you round the corner onto the main parkade, you see them. At the far end of the garage are four black sedans, windows tinted opaque. They’re parked in formation, three of them strategically shielding the fourth from all sides. Standing a few yards in front of the cars are a half-dozen men in suits. They watch you silently.

You naturally hesitate a little, and Akande pushes your shoulder a little. You let the force show in your flinch, the scuff of your boots as you stumble and catch yourself.

Your stomach flutters anxiously, and you don’t try to fight it off. It’ll be better for Westfield’s guards to smell your nerves. More convincing.

Akande shifts his grip to your upper arm, and you resist, pulling weakly, glancing around wildly, digging in your heels. One of the men smirks, and Akande pulls you up the last few yards. Gabriel is at your other shoulder, and you try as hard as you can not to take comfort in his presence. Instead you fit a look of dawning fright onto your face. You look at the suited men with wide eyes. You look quickly around the garage, glancing behind you.

One of the suited men steps forwards, breathing in deeply. You don’t even have to pretend to shrink back. The discomfort is entirely natural.

“This is the omega?”

“Yes. Just as discussed.”

The man studies you for a second. He takes in your dirty hair (deliberately mussed hours earlier), and the split at the corner of your lip (from nervous chewing the night before). His eyes rake over you, and you can tell by the way they narrow that he’s pleased.

“It’s damaged slightly.” He motions to your face. “My employer negotiated the price for undamaged goods.”

Akande smiles. “I’m willing to negotiate a little if your employer is not entirely satisfied with what I have.”

The man’s lips purse faintly. “I negotiate for him. With the damages and the state of the goods, he will pay ten thousand.”

Akande’s fingers dig into your shoulder a little hard, flexing his arm as he keeps smiling. “The agreement was for fifteen.”

“Fifteen was the price for perfect condition. My employer prefers to break them himself.”

Akande sighs, then shakes his head. “You drive a hard bargain. I’ll let them go for twelve.”

The suited man smiles, and it makes your spine feel slimy. “Mr. Westfield will purchase your product for twelve.”

Akande relaxes, laughing. “Excellent.”

The suited man nods to Akande, then turns and strides towards the squadron of cars. The other suits all have hands resting casually on their weapons as their spokesperson opens the back door of the barricaded sedan. He bends down, speaking quietly, and then he retreats in a low bow of subservience.

The man that emerges from the car is shorter than you expected. He’s a small man, no more than five foot three, a little portly and soft in his face. His cheeks are slightly pudgy, with a large gray beard and small round spectacles. He wears a gray suit.

He looks kindly, with a warm smile and sparkling eyes. He steps past his armed guards and reaches out a hand to Akande. Akande’s fist dwarfs Westfield’s, and Westfield laughs, and your heart begins to race.

Your mind spins over the next steps at a blinding pace. Lower their guard, get enough of an opening for Amélie to put a bullet in Westfield’s head. In the second of scramble, you need to grab Gabriel and let him whisk you away before he and Sombra jump in to help Akande beat a retreat. You just have to wait for Amélie to make a move, and everything will snap. Any moment now the man before you will collapse.

“Well now,” Westfield says. “I must admit that I wasn’t sure what kind of product I would be getting. One never can be entirely sure of the quality with new patrons.” He smiles, eyes sparkling. “This one is pure, then? Unbroken?”

Akande shifts slightly to the side. “Of course.”

“Hmm.” Westfield’s eyes glitter. “Not a bad specimen. Perhaps once I’m done with it, my men can enjoy themselves.” He tosses a laugh over his shoulder, and some of his agents leer. Westfield snaps his fingers, and another agent steps up and opens a briefcase to display stacks of bills. A moment later, he shuts it.

“Here is your payment,” Westfield says. “Ah—for future reference, I prefer if you collar and gag them in advance. I bring my own when meeting with new clients, but I’ll have Wilson contact you with the specifics for next time.”

Gabriel tenses, just barely.

Westfield turns to wave over one of his men, and you see the way he twists, the moment when he looks away and most of his agents follow his gaze for a brief flicker of a second. You know, instinctively, that this is the perfect moment for Amélie to—

A gunshot goes off, and Westfield hits the ground screaming. _Screaming_. Less than a heartbeat later, a second bullet whizzes right through the spot where Westfield’s head was. And everything goes to hell.

Westfield is alive, screaming and clutching the bullet wound in his thigh. His agents are swarming, packing in around him and drawing guns and suddenly there’s gunfire everywhere and a body hits you hard, taking you roughly to the ground. You’re blind and deaf with the flurry of gunshots, and you curl up tight beneath the body over you.

A window shatters, and the bullets point upwards and fire at the intruder. In the moment of diverted attention, the body shielding yours grabs you, and the world shifts.

Gabriel shoves you up behind a pillar, pushing you down to your knees and hunkering over you. His breaths are rasping, and his body boxes you in as he crouches in front of you.

“_Are you hurt_?” he barks, grabbing your shoulder.

“I’m fine, I’m fine, I—what’s happening? Amélie—”

An unfamiliar voice chimes out with a whoop, and a roar follows close behind.

Gabriel swears. “She didn’t shoot the first one. _Idiots_, why the hell are they interfering?” He snarls, turning back to you. “We need to go.”

Bullets strike the pillar and you flinch. Gabriel grabs your hand.

“Stay with me.”

You nod, waiting for him to level his shotgun and take your arm. Gabriel yanks you out from behind the pillar, and you sprint alongside him as he shoots a few retaliatory shots. Screams and shouts fill the air, and there’s blood and a few bodies and you see Westfield on the ground—

Gabriel yanks you through a stairwell door, and you sprint downwards. The noises fade behind you, and Gabriel slows to a walk.

“Are you alright?”

“Yeah.” Your hands are shaking, but you aren’t injured. “What’s going on?”

Gabriel hisses. “Overwatch. They’re meddling, and they ruined a clean mission for us.”

“What about Akande? He’s alone…”

“He’ll be fine. At least Overwatch is good for a distraction.”

Your steps echo in the quiet stairwell. “What about Westfield?”

“Amélie took him out in the firefight.”

Your shoulders relax. “Oh good.”

Gabriel pauses, glancing back at you. His blank mask does nothing to hide the surge of possessiveness you sense from him. “Wish I had done it. That piece of shit deserved worse.”

You smile, shy at his protectiveness. You glance down at your feet to stop from blushing, and something catches your attention. Bright red droplets pepper the concrete, with a fresh smear of a bootprint angling towards the corner mere feet ahead. Very, very fresh. You look up with a gasp.

“Gabr—”

The man lunges out from behind the corner, slamming hard into Gabriel and firing two shots point blank. The air leaves your lungs and Gabriel shouts, tripping back into the wall. The attacker whips out a knife, plunging it into Gabriel twice before Gabriel hefts his shotgun. The second strike sinks into Gabriel’s shoulder and the shotgun falls from his grasp and he stumbles and grabs at the man.

You throw yourself forwards, yanking out both of your knives. The man gets off one more shot into Gabriel’s stomach before you’re on him, both knives goring through either side of his throat. He chokes and writhes, falling back on you. You scramble overtop of him, and he claws at you as you plunge your knife again and again into his chest. His clawing hands go weak, and then fall limp.

You whirl around and scramble over towards Gabriel. He’s slumped against the wall, and as you reach him he pushes his mask aside to wheeze for breath. You can see the dark blood glistening on his body, spatters of it painting his mask, a streak of it dribbling from the corner of his mouth.

You whimper.

“I’m fine,” he gasps. “I’ll be fine just—need a moment.” He coughs, and blood bubbles at his lips. He wheezes, and you reach up to wipe away the blood before you realize that your hands and sleeves are soaked in red.

You whimper again, and Gabriel grabs your hand. His claws curl gently around your fingers.

“Ahh,” he groans. “Fuck. He got me right in the kidney.”

“The _kidney_?”

Gabriel leans his head back against the wall. “I need a minute. To heal.” His free hand is pressed loosely to his side, and you notice the puddle of blood starting to form around him on the ground.

“Gabriel,” you whisper.

He pulls his mask off fully, and he touches your cheek. His brows are pulled together in pain, but his eyes are gentle. “I’m fine. I can take a few hits.”

You want to scream at the sight of his blood, but you swallow down the burst of protective rage. Your blood boils, and Gabriel sighs, dropping his hand from your face. “You should retrieve your knives. Just in case.”

Relieved to have something to do, you search the ground for your blades. One is still lodged in the dead man’s chest, but the other is nowhere to be seen. You duck around the corner where the man was hiding, wondering if it was knocked away in the fight.

The eerie red glow stops you short. The stairwell continues downwards, but the small maintenance door is open and red flashes pulse from inside. You edge closer, cautious, but you don’t see movement. What you do see is a tiny little closet, with a few panels and a breaker box, and a small plastic rectangle flashing a bright red. You draw nearer, and you realize that the red lights are numbers, a timer counting downwards. You glance from the small rectangle, following the wires leading from it to the breaker box. Another rectangle is pressed against the inside of the door frame, counting down at the exact same time. The wires on this one run down beneath a table, connecting to a small stack of round explosives.

You turn on your heel and bolt. Gabriel tenses when you barrel around the corner, and you grab his arm, yanking him upright as you start to panic.

“There’s a maintenance closet around the corner and it’s filled with explosives wired up to the building,” you babble.

Gabriel grunts, but he shoves upright, grabbing your arm. “Explosives?”

“They look like rectangles with wires coming out. And a bunch of those little compact grenades Sombra uses are in there.”

Gabriel pauses, and then swears. “We’re right at a major support structure right now. They probably have this whole place rigged up to collapse if they get taken out.” He grabs your arm and starts running up the stairs with you in tow. His hand flies to his earpiece and he barks a warning, although he doesn’t add more and you wonder if the line is dead or if the others are fighting or if they’re even alive—

“Were they on a switch or a timer?”

“Timer. Counting down fast.”

“What time was it at?”

“A minute,” you say, and Gabriel’s eyes widen. You’re both running, but he’s wounded and he’s not as fast as usual and there are so many _stairs_…

Behind you, a rapid beeping pierces through the stairwell. Gabriel’s face slackens with terror, and he grabs you, pushing you down on the nearest landing and throwing his body over yours—

The world blasts apart in fire and light and noise, a concussive force of ear-popping pain and bone-cracking shock. You see flashes of flame, but the world has gone all wrong and confused and you aren’t quite sure what you’re seeing. There’s hot orange fire dancing in your vision, and a body heavy over yours, and you can’t hear anything but the high-pitched ring in your ears. The world is blurry and you can’t see right and it feels a little like the everything is shaking, or all your organs have been dislodged just enough to leave you wrong-footed and disoriented and confused…

_Gabriel_, you think. His name cuts through the confusion and you know that he’s hurt, he’s in danger, and _Gabriel_—

Orange flickers in your vision, and the edges of the world dim. You try to blink it away, but the colour is what vanishes, and your eyes are swallowed by blackness as your ears whine with a shrill tone, and everything snuffs out.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warnings:
> 
> Angst, panic attack.

A low, droning hum goes on and on and on. It reminds you of the whining of a bee, droning on steadily and impossible to ignore. You’re aware, too, of the terrible heaviness. Your body is there, but it feels weighted, dragging down like a stone. You aren’t sinking into the bed, somehow, but you’re so _heavy_.

Things are kind of fuzzy, and even when you open your eyes, you’re still confused. The room is long, lit brightly in white and yellow lights. Everything is all white and soft yellow, from the lights to the walls to the floor to the plain blanket draped over you. The bed you’re on is small, and when you look to the side, you see a long row of similar empty beds. On a small table beside your bed is a little device. It gives off a warm yellow glow that bathes you like a personal sun.

A door opens and shuts and you struggle to sit up. Your body is so very heavy, and you slump back, half-sitting against your pillow.

The woman who entered smiles at you, her blonde hair tied up off her face. She walks over, and her white coat swishes around her.

“I’m glad to see you’re awake,” she greets you. “My name is Doctor Angela Zeigler, and this is Jack Morrison.” She nods over her shoulder, and now you notice the man loitering in the doorway. At the mention of his name, he straightens up and steps inside.

“How are you feeling?” Angela asks you.

“Fine,” you say, trailing off. You look around once more, so very confused. “Where am I?”

“You’re in the medical bay,” she explains. “I’ll explain everything, but first…” She touches your arm, checking your pulse, looking in your eyes. “Can you tell me your name?”

“[Y/N],” you reply automatically. She smiles, releasing you and checking the little machine on the table.

“How are you feeling? Your vitals seem normal, and your injuries have healed nicely.”

“I’m not in pain.” You frown. “I feel tired.”

“That’s normal,” she assures you. “You were injured rather badly, and an unfortunate side effect of rapid healing technology is that it tends to sap your energy. You’ll feel much better after some sleep.”

“Injured,” you echo, and you remember the flashes of fire and ringing ears and the explosion—

_Gabriel_.

You sit up sharply, gripping the blankets tight. “Th-The explosion. There was an explosion and fire and—and—”

“It’s alright,” Angela soothes. “There was an explosion, and you were injured by shrapnel. Luckily your injuries were mostly surface-level, and we managed to get you out of there and bring you back to heal you. We’re lucky that Tracer saw where you disappeared to.”

“G—Reaper. He was with me,” you gasp. “In the stairwell. What happened? Where is he?”

Angela’s smile softens even further. “You don’t need to worry. You’re safe now.”

Your heart drops. Your heart drops and your stomach goes cold and you feel like you might be sick, or pass out, or burst into tears. “He’s not here?”

Angela shakes her head, still smiling at you like it’s a comfort. “You’re safe. We’re at the Overwatch headquarters now, so there’s no way Talon will be able to get to you.”

Your mouth is dry and your throat is blocked and you unstick your tongue from the roof of your mouth as your voice cracks. “What happened? Is he—did he—”

The man, Jack, shakes his head. His voice is gruff. “All the Talon agents got away.”

You sway, letting out a sigh of relief. You close your eyes for a moment, then look back to Angela. You’re so relieved, but there’s a horrible ache in your chest and you can hardly stand how badly you want to be in Gabriel’s arms right now. “He was okay? Reaper? He wasn’t hurt?”

Angela pauses, and she and Jack exchange a strange look. Angela hesitates, and then smiles reassuringly.

“He seemed injured, but our priority was rescuing you.”

Jack huffs, crossing his arms. “If I’d been there, I’d have taken the opportunity to finish him once and for all.”

Your heart nearly stops in horror, and you have to fight the abrupt urge to tear Jack’s face off and make sure he’ll never, ever get anywhere near your alpha. You twist your hands in the blanket, jittery with nerves. You can’t seem to stop asking, just to be sure. “But you said he was okay? He got out of there alright?”

Jack narrows his eyes, and Angela considers you before she nods.

“Reaper was down when we rescued you, but he was starting to move. When we extracted you and went back to secure him, he was gone.”

You think about the way he threw his body over yours, the fact that he must have been unconscious and began to come to when you were being taken away. Your heart twists as you imagine the rush of devastation and panic, the same way you feel now as you realize that they took you away from him.

You swallow, choking back tears.

“You should rest and regain your strength,” Angela tells you. “I’m going to give you a light sedative to help, and when you wake up we’ll get you something to eat.”

You don’t resist as she prepares a needle and administers a shot to your arm. You lie down, heart pounding. Your ribs ache fiercely, and you close your eyes, wishing that when you open them, you’ll be back with Gabriel once more.

\--

You wake up in a new room. You wake up in a room that’s cold and gray. The small cot is covered in a silver blanket, and there’s a table in the middle of the room. The floor is a smooth, cold gray. The far wall is set with a large window.

You sit up, but there’s none of that heaviness from before. You test your limbs, lifting your arms and flexing your fingers. You aren’t slow, and there’s no pain.

The floor is cold on your bare feet as you get out of bed. Your dark clothes are gone, replaced with a plain white tee and gray sweats. It feels invasive, somehow, like someone has been under your skin.

You glance up towards the large window.

You try very, very, very hard not to panic. You breathe in deep through your nose. Out through your mouth. You try not to think about waking up in the Talon cell, realizing that someone had been digging around inside your head. You try not to think about Gabriel.

You fail.

You think about Gabriel, shot and stabbed and bleeding heavily. You think about the last look of terror on his face the moment before the explosion. You think about the way he pushed you down and threw himself over you, the way he pulled you to his chest and wrapped his arms around your head and pressed you tight into the corner before the world ripped apart.

A searing agony opens up in your heart. It feels like something between hunger and the start of a breakdown. You press a hand to your lips, and both your fingers and mouth are cold. You’re cold and you’re scared and you want Gabriel.

Your heart lurches, and you squeeze your eyes shut. You breathe in through your nose, out through your mouth. You try very, very hard to convince yourself you don’t feel like throwing up.

“[Y/N]?”

The voice filters through a speaker, and you don’t look up. You’re still focussed on your breathing, on how awfully cold you are, on how terribly, horribly empty your stomach is.

“[Y/N], can you hear me?”

Your fingers start to tremble. You let them fall to your side, curling into fists as you turn around. The window is no longer empty. On the other side is a little ledge, and in two chairs are Angela and Jack. They’re both watching you, and Angela gives you a sympathetic look.

“I’m very sorry to shock you like this. It’s not our intention to scare you. But we thought it would be best to make sure you were… safe… until we could talk and figure things out.”

You close your eyes against a bout of nausea. You want Gabriel. You want Gabriel so badly you feel sick. There’s a horrible, sucking homesickness in your chest.

“We just have a few questions for you. If you have any questions, please feel free to ask them. We’re wondering exactly how you ended up with Talon. We know you’re not an agent.”

You swallow, and as much as you don’t want to deal with this right now, talking is your only way out. “I was taken. In the attack on Beacon.”

Angela’s eyes widen. “They abducted you?”

Jack frowns. “That was months ago.”

Angela’s face flickers with pain and she glances sidelong at Jack. “I told you they’re a victim.”

Jack raises his chin at you, ignoring her. “So Talon abducted you from Beacon, and they’ve been holding you for months. Why did they want you?”

You hesitate, offering up a half-truth. “I’m an omega. They had dealings with traffickers, and they wanted me to act as bait to set up ambushes.”

“Like yesterday,” Angela hums.

Jack’s eyes narrow. “So they kept you because you were valuable as bait. You were probably scared, then. Probably waiting for any opportunity to escape. Naturally, you’d hate Talon for what they did to you.” He taps a finger against the ledge. “So why were you concerned about Reaper?”

Your heart seizes. You blink back the wave of pain and longing that slams into you. Your hands are shaking and you keep clenching them against nothing, wishing you could reach out and take Gabriel’s hand.

“I think there’s something else going on. I don’t think you’re fit to be released, for your own safety.”

Angela makes a noise of complaint, and Jack sighs, gesturing at you.

“You saw how concerned they were. You really think there’s nothing off about this?”

Angela hesitates. “I don’t like this. Keeping someone like a prisoner.”

Jack stares you down. “Just until we figure this out.”

“I told you, Talon abducted me.” You dig your nails into your palms. Your heart is racing and you can’t stand it. Your skin feels all wrong. Your guts are missing, heart left behind with Gabriel, and you’re just bleeding out into the gaping cavity of your empty chest. You sway, pressing a hand to your eyes. “Please just let me go. I won’t be any trouble.”

“I’m not worried about you being trouble,” Jack replies. “I’m worried about Reaper being trouble.”

Your head snaps up.

“Until I hunt him down and see what he has to say, you’re staying with us.”

_Hunt him down_.

“Stay away from him,” you warn, and your voice shakes.

Jack leans closer to the window. “Why are you concerned about your kidnapper? If you’re just an innocent bystander, why would you care if I put a bullet in his head?”

You slam your fist against the glass, fury exploding. “Don’t you _touch him_!” Everything in you revolts at the idea, and you’re half-wild, snarling through the glass. “Stay _away_ from him. If you lay a single finger on him, I’ll _rip your eyes out of your head_.”

Jack blinks, and sighs. He looks to Angela. “Told you.”

She winces, looking down. She shuffles some papers. “Fine. I’ll respect your judgement on this.”

You strike the glass again, panic and fury mingling in equal measure. “What do you want? What do you _want_? Where are you going?” Jack stands, walking down the length of the window. You follow, shouting after him. “Leave him alone! _Leave him alone_! If you hurt him, I’ll _kill you_!”

He ignores you, disappearing from sight, and you can’t really breathe all that well. It feels like you’re trying to get oxygen out of a balloon, and your lungs are all tight and collapsed. You wheeze in a breath, and you’re sick, you’re scared, you’re _terrified_. You have no idea what’s happening, but the only thing that matters is that you can’t breathe and he’s going after Gabriel, he’s going to _hurt Gabriel_—

You slide to your knees, gasping. Your chest is collapsing and there’s something wrong with your lungs and you feel sick, sick, sick and you know your heart is still in your chest because it’s beating too hard too fast and you’re dying, you’re _dying_—

You whimper, tears spilling down your cheeks and you’ve never been so scared in your _life_ and you can’t breathe, you can’t do anything, and you’re about to die, you’re going to die here and Gabriel won’t even know that he’s in danger, that you tried, that your last thoughts were of him.

You can’t breathe and your heart is failing and you’re going to die, you’re gong to die, you’re going to _die_—

A hand touches your shoulder as someone crouches down beside you. Angela kneels there, talking soothingly. You glance up to meet her eyes, and she nods at you.

“Breathe, [Y/N]. Focus on me. Deep breaths. You’re alright.”

You shudder, sucking in one breath, then another.

“You’re alright. It’s okay. Breathe, just like that. Take your time.”

You blink and tears streak down to your chin, down your throat. Your lungs aren’t quite as tight. The pressure in your throat eases.

Angela rubs your shoulder. “There we go. You’re doing very well. Just like that.”

Footsteps pound the ground, and Jack bursts into the room from an open door that had been invisible previously. He bolts over to Angela, weapon drawn.

“What are you doing? You shouldn’t be in here alone with them—”

“They had a panic attack,” she snaps back, sounding truly annoyed. “You pushed them too far.”

Jack looks a little shocked, but you can’t appreciate it. As he helps Angela to her feet, you slump against the wall and bring your knees up to your chest. You curl over yourself, sniffling. You feel dizzy and cold and so very, very weak. You’re so tired, like all the energy has been sapped from your bones.

Angela sighs, pushing Jack towards the door. “Come on. You’ve done enough.”

He mutters something, but she herds him out. You couldn’t care less; you’re shaking and weak, and you can’t manage to do anything more than collapse inwards as your very soul cries out for your missing heart.


	16. Chapter 16

You spend three days in silent captivity. You discover that your cell has a small sliding door that opens on the tiniest bathroom imaginable, just a toilet and a sink. No mirror. Nothing that you can dismantle to use as a weapon. You give up on escape after a thorough search of the cell.

You’re given meals three times a day, and the food is surprisingly decent. It’s brought in by armed guards, and you aren’t stupid enough to think they wouldn’t shoot you the moment you flinch in their direction.

Angela comes by to talk to you twice, asking about your imprisonment with Talon, and then mentioning a psychological evaluation. When you realize that the conversation isn’t anything useful, you roll over and pull the bedsheets over your head.

The first day was bad enough. The hours ticked painfully by, and you lay limply in bed as your heart broke into pieces. Your stomach began the process of hollowing out, and after a full twenty four hours away from Gabriel, worrying about him, you were beginning to lose it. Your insides festered and melted away to a raw, open wound. Even breathing hurt so terribly you wanted to cry. You could barely eat, and choking back tears took all of your energy. You were listless with agony for two days, and somewhere on the third day, you snapped.

It all became too much. Your stomach hurt and your skin was a prison, and you found yourself pacing the cell, walking wall to wall to wall to wall, mindlessly covering every inch of space with your footprints. Some horrible, wailing part of your chest refused to stay still. You couldn’t stand it, not knowing where Gabriel was. It helped to move, to know that one of the walls was even three feet closer to him.

Angela stopped by once during your pacing. She watched you walk and walk and walk, and she tried to speak to you but when she brushed off your questions about Gabriel, you returned to pacing.

Even now, your eyes burn. You collapsed in bed hours ago, but you can’t sleep. All you can think about is the cold space beside you where Gabriel should be. The thought of him sears a dull pain through your ribs. You whimper. Your heart hurts like it’s been beaten and bruised, and it feels so terribly wrong not to see blood. You miss him so badly you can hardly breathe.

You don’t sleep. You watch numbly as the lights slowly begin to undim, mimicking the rising sun. You suppose you should appreciate the time cycle, but right now you’d take pitch darkness if it meant you’d see Gabriel any sooner.

The lights creep back to full brightness, and you’re still staring at the ceiling when you see someone walk up to the glass in your peripheral. You don’t turn your head. If you turn your head, you’ll be looking through the empty space where Gabriel should be. You won’t see his soft expression, the gentle brown of his eyes.

Your heart spasms painfully. You can’t seem to stop touching your chest, reflexively prodding for the shrapnel that you expect to be embedded deep beneath your sternum.

“[Y/N], are you awake?”

You ignore the question. By now you’ve learned that your responses don’t get you any closer to leaving. They just exhaust you with the effort. You don’t want any of this. You’ve told Angela you want to leave, that it can’t be legal for them to keep you prisoner. Jack had scoffed and told you that they were free to do whatever they wanted, if you were affiliated with Talon.

She sighs. “I have some news for you. About Reaper.”

Your head snaps to the side, and you barely have time to catch your breath as you scramble to your feet and rush over to the glass. You press your palms up against the smooth surface, and your heart stutters weakly. You can feel the blood rushing in your ears.

“Did you see him? Is he okay? He didn’t get hurt in the explosion?”

Angela glances away, looking almost ashamed.

“I told you.” Jack pushes off the wall, stepping into view. “If you want their attention, just bring him up.”

You snarl at him, turning back to Angela with wide eyes. “Did you see him? Is he alright?”

She’s frowning, looking mad at herself. “I didn’t see him. I’m sorry. The only news we have is that he may have been spotted in Paris, but the witness is not a reliable report.”

You feel your heart go cold and hard as ice frosts up over it. It freezes into brittle shards, going cold so fast that it splinters. The hard cracks echo through the cavity of your chest, and when you exhale, it comes out frosty from your shrunken lungs.

Just before the anger can sweep in, Jack clears his throat.

“We don’t have any news about Reaper, but I have some things to tell you about him.”

That gets your attention, and you look back up.

“I can tell you who he is. I can tell you who he used to be, and what happened to him.” For a moment, pain flickers across Jack’s face. He clears his throat, steeling his expression. “I can answer your questions about him, but in return, you need to answer ours.”

Your fingers slide off the glass, and you consider him. “You said you don’t know where he is.”

“Not at the moment. But he used to be with Overwatch. I can tell you his history.”

You narrow your eyes even as your heart flips. “I want to know where he is _now_. I don’t even know if he’s okay. I don’t care about his past. He’ll tell me if he wants me to know.”

Jack laughs flatly. “You really think so? He’s not who you think he is. We don’t know what he’s done to you, but maybe if you learn the truth about him, you’ll be able to see the monster he really is.”

Your frozen heart cracks. The split cracks down your chest, through your stomach, and all the way down through your toes. You go stiff, and you feel strangely like you’ve been hit by lightening. For a moment you’re blindsided with shock, and then you’re hit with the most unbearable, explosive _rage_.

You pound your fist into the glass so hard your knuckles split. Angela jumps, and Jack startles as you slam your bloody knuckles into the glass again. You’re burning alive with anger, and you fight back the scream building in your throat.

“Are you the one that told him that? Are you the one that told him he’s a _monster_? How _dare_ you! How dare you, you—you—” You’re shaking with fury, and you can hardly breathe through the blinding urge to rip out his throat. “How dare you speak about him like that. How dare you call him that. I’ll rip the tongue out of your head the next time I hear you say it!”

Your stomach is hot with hatred, like you’ve swallowed a burning ember. Even your cold heart is beginning to singe. How dare they. How _dare_ they call him a monster.

Jack looks to Angela and raises one eyebrow. “You still think this is normal?”

She frowns, slamming her clipboard down on the table. “I think this is the wrong way to go about it! I know you have your opinions, but this is manipulation. It isn’t fair, and it doesn’t prove anything.”

“I’m pretty sure it proves [Y/N] has been abused to hell and back, if they’ll defend that m—”

“He would _never_ hurt me,” you cut in sharply. They break off, looking back at you, and you swallow hard. “He’s never hurt me, and he never would. _Never_.”

“Has he convinced you that he didn’t mean it?” Jack asks, and you curl your hands into fists.

“You don’t know anything about him. He’s a good person. He takes care of me and—”

“He’s a _murderer_. He’s tried to kill me dozens of times—”

“Well you look like you’re still breathing to me,” you spit.

Jack growls, and Angela pinches the bridge of her nose.

“Gabriel’s never done anything to hurt me,” you say fiercely. “He’s saved my life more than once.”

They’re both staring at you with wide eyes. They exchange a look, and Jack’s expression changes a little.

“You know who he is?”

Your breath hitches as you realize you said his name. Before you can backpedal, Jack barrels on.

“You know who he is and you still don’t think he’s a monster? He _betrayed_ us. He was one of _us_, he was my friend! He was _family_, and he betrayed us.” Jack looks at you with something like the agony swirling in your gut. “You think I didn’t try to come up with excuses for him? I wanted to believe he was still a hero. But the explosion at the Swiss headquarters… he knew about it. He was involved, and he betrayed us. And then he tried to kill us, again and again. He’s not Gabriel Reyes anymore.”

“You’re wrong,” you whisper.

Jack shakes his head. “I tried to explain it so many times. I tried everything to make him innocent. But he told me himself that he knew about the bombs. He shot me in the back and he’s been trying to kill us for the past eight years.”

“He’s a good person,” you say, and your voice shakes. You feel sick.

“I wanted to believe that more than anyone,” Jack murmurs. “But he was clear. He proved once and for all that he’s a monster.”

“Don’t call him that.” You try to be sharp, but you’re starting to cry, and it comes out wobbly and tearful.

“That’s enough,” Angela says softly. “Jack.”

“He’s not like that,” you gasp, sniffling. Wet tears stream down your cheeks as you blink, and your chest is so horribly painful. You sob, scrubbing at your eyes. “You’re wrong about him. You’re _wrong_!”

Angela shoot you a look of apology and sympathy, and she half-follows, half-prods Jack away from the window. She glances back at you, and you hate the pity in her eyes even as you break down, falling to your knees and crying in earnest. It all hurts too badly, and you can’t stop picturing the look in Gabriel’s eyes when you told him he wasn’t a monster. The fear, the vulnerability, the rawness. And here you are, stuck behind glass, forced to listen to people try to tell you that he deserved to be called such a horrible thing. It rips you open, and you howl, curling over your knees and crying until you can’t breathe and your throat is sore.

\--

You don’t speak to anyone for the next two days. Angela visits you, but she doesn’t try to make you talk anymore. She looks guilty. You aren’t really that angry with her, but it feels better to give someone the cold shoulder than to wallow in your own agony. It gives you something to think about other than Gabriel. Thinking about him hurts like a knife in your chest, and you miss him so fiercely you wonder how he can’t hear your thoughts screaming for him.

You’ve taken to counting the threads in your sheets when you’re alone, to occupy your mind. You’re straining your eyes and halfway to three hundred when a scuffle breaks you focus. You straighten up, alert.

Outside your cell, you can hear muffled arguing. Someone snaps something, and you hear a door slam before things go quiet. After a minute, the door slams back open and there’s more arguing. You recognize Angela’s stressed tone before three people come into view of the window.

Angela is there, looking exhausted. You feel a flicker of pity, and it extends a little bit to the flustered guard beside her. The man is still stammering out an explanation, but you don’t try to make out the words. Your gaze jumps to the third person, and you’re up like a shot as recognition sings through you.

“_Roan_?”

It’s undeniably him. He’s cleaner than he was when you found him bound and gagged in Flint’s sanctum. His hair is pulled back in a neat ponytail, and he’s comfortably dressed and slightly tanned. He looks much healthier than the last time you saw him, trembling and teary and terrified. You press up against the glass, and Roan puts one hand up to mirror yours. He smiles at you before glaring over his shoulder at the guard.

“I _told_ you I know them.”

“You still don’t have permission to see the prisoner—”

“They’re not a prisoner, they’re a friend, and they shouldn’t be locked up in the first place!” Roan grimaces and looks at you. “I’m so sorry, I had no idea you were here. I only got back from a mission yesterday, and by the time I realized that you were the one they had locked up, well…” He trails off and shakes his head. “Can we get them out of here, please?”

Angela pinches the bridge of her nose again. “Jack will complain.”

“See if I care. [Y/N]’s not dangerous. I don’t care if you want to keep them around, but let them out of the cell. They’re a friend.”

“Open it,” Angela sighs, and the flustered guard complies.

Roan rushes in as soon as the door is open. He flings his arms around you, and you gasp, collapsing into the tight hug. He squeezes you hard, pulling back to study your face.

“You look terrible. Have they been rough with you?”

You shake your head. “I have no idea what’s going on. I just want to go home.”

He squeezes your shoulder. “I don’t think I can get you out of the base just yet, but I’ll get you out of the cell, okay? You can stay with me.” He leads you out of the cell, and it feels strange not to have anyone stop you. Angela falls in behind you, wearily trailing along as Roan heads back through a door and a long hall.

“Don’t worry, I’ll take responsibility for them,” Roan tell her.

Angela just sighs. “You know full well that I’m the one responsible for you.”

“I can’t just leave them in there. I told you, they saved me. They helped me get here. If it wasn’t for [Y/N], I’d be dead, or worse.”

“So you’ve said. I know,” she says. “I do. I agree. But Jack won’t like it.”

“Tell him [Y/N] will stay on base, then. But I’m not letting anyone lock them up again. They look awful.” He frowns at you. “Have you eaten?”

“Is there anywhere to sleep?” you croak. You feel unsteady, and you’re starting to worry you might keel over at any moment.

Roan looks you over, from your greasy hair to your bare feet. He nods. “Let’s go to my room. You can shower and nap, and we’ll get you some lunch.”

You stumble along until Roan pulls you into a barracks section of the base. His room is small, but not cramped. You collapse on the bed, passing out on top of the covers before you can even try to be polite. Your sleep is long and dreamless, but you wake up with tears in the corners of your eyes, and your first thought it to reach out for Gabriel.

Roan lets you shower, and when you emerge, you find a clean pile of clothes waiting for you. You feel significantly better being rested and clean, but the wrenching missingness is still bleeding you dry. You’re starting to get used to the ever-present agony.

“Angela’s going to bring by some lunch,” Roan informs you. “We thought you should stay in here until she has a chance to tell Jack and the others that I’m vouching for you.” He smiles, and you drop down on the edge of the bed.

“You can’t get me out of here?”

“I’m sorry. I wish I could, but I think I’ve already reached the limits of my abilities. Jack’s more or less the one in charge right now, and he’s really worried about you.” Roan puffs his cheeks. “I’ll try to talk to him. I’ll tell him how you helped me.”

You nod.

“Are okay? Other than being stuck here. You don’t look good.”

“I don’t feel good,” you admit. You wrap your arms around your torso, hugging yourself. “I’m worried about Ga—Reaper.”

Roan frowns. “I heard about what happened, with the mission. He’s tough, though. I’m sure he’s fine.”

The reassurance only helps a little. “I miss him.”

“I’ll do my best to get you out of here.”

You look over at him, swallowing down the hurt. “So these were the friends you mentioned?”

He laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Not the best introduction, huh? Yeah. I met a couple of them before, during an omnic incident. I figured they’d be willing to give me somewhere to stay if I was running from traffickers.” He pauses, then leans over to rummage through a small desk. He leans back over and hands you a small, slender object.

“By the way, this is yours. I probably shouldn’t be giving you weapons, but just don’t tell, okay?”

You curl your fingers tight around the little knife. Your heart has gone all funny. Gabriel gave it to you, before you gave it to Roan. It’s the only thing of his you have. You fight the urge to cry.

“Thank you.”

“Of course. I wanted to give it back to you, since it seemed important.” He softens. “I never got to properly thank you for what you did. You’re my hero. Really.”

You laugh, startled. “I just did what anyone would have.”

“You really didn’t,” he replies. “You took care of me. You made sure I was safe. I’ll never be able to repay you, but at least I can help you now. I’ll make sure you get home, okay? It might take a little time to convince Jack, but you’ll get out of here sooner or later. I promise.”


	17. Chapter 17

Even though you’re no longer in a cell, the next two days are miserable. After some arguing, the Overwatch authority decided to let you free as long as you were under supervision of Roan or another agent. Roan introduced you to a dozen or so people, but their names all blurred together and you forget them soon enough. You don’t leave the room enough to get to know them, anyways.

Your stomach has been hurting for the last few days, and it’s getting to the point where you’re worried there might be something wrong. You can’t eat much, because you constantly feel like you want to vomit. You’re fully content just to stay in bed all day, but Roan finally drags you out to watch a movie with some of the others.

“You don’t have to socialize,” he promises. “Just come for a while.”

You trudge after him, trying not to sulk when he reintroduces you to his friends. They’re nice enough to you, and they don’t force you to chat, which you appreciate. You sit at the very edge of the couch, not bothering to pay attention to the movie. Instead, you glance around at the people in the room.

They seem close, friendly to the point that they tease and hassle one another, telling each other to shut up so they can focus on the show. They laugh, getting up to get snacks and pass them around. It makes you feel lonely.

You swallow down the pang of emptiness, focusing on the screen until the movie ends.

“What did you think?” Roan asks you, leaning across you to grab a bowl of popcorn from someone sitting on the floor.

You shrug.

“Have you seen that one before, luv?” someone asks, and it takes you a beat to realize that the question was directed at you. The woman smiles at you, friendly.

“I—what?”

She motions to the screen. “It’s an old one, so not too many people have seen if before. We were half and half.”

“I don’t… watch a lot of shows.”

She winks. “Don’t worry, we’ll get you cultured soon enough.”

“You call that culture, Lena?” someone else drawls. He pushes the brim of a cowboy hat out of his eyes. “I call dibs on picking the next one.”

Lena sticks out her tongue, shouting when the man snatches for the remote. Something about her voice—

Your gasp when you place it. You’ve heard that voice before, whooping out a battle cry as chaos exploded in every direction. You go tense as a spring.

“You were there.”

Lena looks up, and you stammer out an explanation.

“You were there, at the parkade. You were the one that shot Westfield.”

She blinks at you, and then laughs. “That’s right! I didn’t think you saw me. You were unconscious when we got to you.”

Your heart is thumping in your mouth, and you lean closer, frantic. “You were the one that found me?”

She nods. “You were out cold. I’d seen Reaper drag you down into that stairwell, and I was just on my way when the explosions happened. We were lucky the foundation held long enough for us to get you out. The entire west side of the place collapsed.”

You can hardly breathe. “Angela said you went back after you got me out. She said Reaper was gone. Did you see him leave?”

Lena winces. “Unfortunately. He was coming to when I got you out of there, but I wasn’t thinking clearly. I wanted to get you safe before the place collapsed, so I ended up letting him go.” She sighs. “It would have saved a lot of trouble if I’d just thought for a moment and shot him first.”

Your blood goes cold. You can feel it trickling through your veins, running ice up to your heart and all through your spine. “_What_?”

Everyone pauses at the ferocity in your voice. You can’t help it. You feel like you might start throwing punches at the next person to casually mention hurting Gabriel.

Lena blinks. “What?”

“Lena, did you forget what Angie said?” the cowboy hisses to her.

Lena winces, but you whirl on the man.

“What did Angela say?”

Now it’s his turn to backpedal. “Ah, well, she just said that you’d been through a lot, is all.”

You look to Roan. He shakes his head and pats your shoulder.

“We should go.”

You bristle, and he gives you a meaningful look as he nods towards the door.

“Come on. It’s late and everyone’s kind of crabby.”

You allow him to usher you up and towards the door. He calls out farewells to the others, and you wait until you step out into the hall to turn a glare on him.

“What was that about?”

He groans, motioning for you to walk with him. “I asked her not to, but she and Jack thought everyone should be aware of the situation. They kind of explained that people shouldn’t talk about Reaper around you.”

“Why? I’ve been trying to find out if he’s okay since I _got_ here.”

Roan hesitates, and then gives you a sympathetic look. “It’s not that. They don’t want people talking about him because they think it will encourage you to keep thinking about him.”

You scoff, but Roan continues.

“Listen… they’re convinced that he’s been manipulating you to use you as bait for enemies. They’re completely convinced that you have Stockholm syndrome, and that he’s mistreating you. That’s why they won’t let you leave. They know you’ll go back to him, and they think they’re protecting you by keeping you here.”

Roan walks a few more steps before he realizes that you’re not with him. He turns around, registering the look on your face.

“Do you believe them?” you whisper.

Roan’s eyes widen. “Of course not. Listen, [Y/N], I’ve _told_ them! I’ve done everything I could to convince them that they’re wrong, but they think that Reaper put on a front of concern for you when you were on the mission. That think that’s part of how he convinced you that he really cares about you. I told them that he genuinely does seem concerned about you, but they don’t believe me. Or they don’t think I really know anything. But I trust your judgement. I know you’re smart, and I know you wouldn’t let someone do that to you.” His expression softens, and he gives your shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “We’ll find a way to convince them that you’re not in danger.”

“I want to talk to them now,” you say. “I can’t take this anymore. I’m so _tired_, and I feel so awful, you can’t imagine.” You wrap you arms around yourself. “It’s killing me. It’s _killing me_ to be away from him.”

Roan nods reluctantly. “Come on. Jack wanted to talk to you about something, too. Be careful, though. Because you’re upset, they think you aren’t rational. They don’t understand that what they’re doing isn’t helping.”

He leads you down a maze of halls, stopping before a door engraved with the Overwatch insignia. He knocks, and a voice calls for you to enter.

Jack looks surprised to see you, half-standing from his chair before he sits back down. He motions for you to come over, but there’s only one chair across from his desk.

“I can wait outside,” Roan offers.

“You might as well get Angela,” Jack says. “It might be a long chat, and I need her input on something.”

Roan give you a nod before he slips out the door, leaving you alone with Jack.

Jack stares at you for a long moment, hands folded on front of his mouth. His eyes are piercing, but he looks exhausted, and his face is lined with stress. There are dark bags under his eyes. “How much do you know about Gabriel Reyes?”

You’re caught off guard by the question. You hadn’t expected an interrogation. Jack sighs, rubbing his face.

“You were adamant that he was a good person. You refused to believe that he would hurt innocent people, right? Well I have proof that you’re wrong. He attacked a group of our agents who were doing a humanitarian mission in Italy. He nearly killed all four of them, and he _took one hostage_.” Jack slams a hand against the desk, breaking. “Talon has one of our agents. You were with them for months, and they took you on missions. I need to know about any safe houses, any contacts in Italy. Anywhere he might have taken them.”

You stare at him.

“This is life or death,” Jack says sharply. “Angela wanted to give you time and let you come to your senses slowly, but we’re out of time. Lúcio’s been taken prisoner, and we need to intervene before Reaper can get him back to Talon’s main base. You need to tell us everything you know about safe houses or hiding spots in Italy. Names, locations, contacts…”

“I—have no idea,” you squeak. “Why would I know any of that?”

Jack hisses between his teeth, rubbing his brow. He looks like his last nerves are fraying and snapping. “You ran missions with them. You’ll know _something_. Names, locations—”

“I don’t know anything! Look, I’m sorry about your agent, but I really can’t help you. Even if I wanted to, I don’t know anything to tell you.”

Jack shakes his head slowly, and he sits back heavily in his chair. “I know you don’t want to believe it, but Reaper is not a good man. He’s a killer. Lúcio is _not_ safe with him. Reaper _will_ hurt him. He won’t hesitate to kill him. Tell me _anything _you know.”

“I don’t _know_—”

“Stop _protecting him_!” Jack shouts, patience snapping. “He’s _evil_. He’s a murderer, and a liar, and a backstabbing traitor. Whatever he’s done to convince you he cares, it’s a lie. He isn’t capable of it. I looked into what happened, how Talon got you. We tracked your ID. You were from Beacon, right?”

You’re throw by the abrupt change of topic. Before you can respond, Jack barrels on.

“You were in Beacon when it was attacked. When _Talon _attacked. I was there, I saw the devastation.”

You close your eyes tight as memory of flame and rubble and screaming terror wash over you. For a second, you think you can smell the smoke. The burning flesh. You remember being dragged into the open, being hauled off like a piece of meat for Moira to dissect.

“I was there, and so was he. Reaper helped burn your city down.”

Your stomach turns over.

“By the time we got there, half the city was in ruin. They were trying to hit a warehouse in the eastern district, so we set up a buffer and held the line until they retreated. Reaper is no hero, he’s—”

“What did you say?” Your words are quiet, but they cut Jack off. He pauses, and you tremblingly repeat the words as the realization dawns on you. “Overwatch was holding the line?” You stare at him. “The news said that you were fighting off Talon. They said that you were fighting.”

Jack frowns. “We were making sure the incursion didn’t stretch any deeper into the city. We had to make sure that no one else got hurt—”

“No one else?” you shout. “No one _else_? Fifty-three people _died_! Fifty-three people died, but you didn’t care because the attack started in the slums, right?” You slam your palms against the desk as you stand sharply. “You set up the barricade at the shopping district. You didn’t come to help anyone who was being attacked, but you made sure to protect everyone who could reward you for your _valiant effort_, didn’t you?”

Jack’s face reddens with anger. “By the time we arrived, the eastern section of the city was already destroyed. We sent in some teams to scout the area, but no one was left alive, so we pulled back to form a buffer. We saved _hundreds_ of lives. There was nothing we could do for those who suffered the initial strike. There was no one left.”

“I was there,” you spit. “For _hours_. But Overwatch only protected the shopping district. You left the rest of us to die, or be abducted.”

Jack looks genuinely shocked, by it quickly turns to anger at your accusation. “We had to. At the time we believed that Talon intended to ransack the city. We didn’t know their target was the warehouse until after. If we had known, we would have headed them off there.”

Your eyes sting, and you blink back tears.

“We did everything we could. Could we have done more? Yes, always, but we didn’t know what they were after. Do you see now? Reaper is a villain. He was the one who attacked innocent people. He was the one who hurt people. He was the one who put you in that situation. You don’t need to protect him. He doesn’t deserve it. He killed fifty-three people just to get plans for weaponry.”

“You don’t deserve it either,” you say, voice breaking. “You didn’t do anything. Who did you protect? When did you ever help me?”

“When did _he_ ever help you?”

“All the time! He’s saved my life more than once, and he’s protected me dozens of times. He cares about me, and he takes care of me, and he loves me and—”

“You think that _monster_ is capable of _love_?”

You lunge for Jack just as someone grabs you. You didn’t hear them come in, but Roan and Angela catch you and pull you back before you can climb over the desk and beat Jack’s face into a bloody pulp. You snarl, lashing out, but Roan grabs you tight and shouts your name.

“You don’t know anything about him!” you shout. “You have no right to talk about him like that! He’s a good person, and he cares about me, and I care about him! Let me _go_—”

Roan finally manages to haul you out of the room, and he releases you all at once. You trip, catching yourself against the wall. Your throat and lungs are burning, but when you open your mouth to shout invective, a sob comes out.

Roan hesitates, drawing closer when you start to sniffle.

“You not going to hit me?”

You look at him through a blur of tears, and his shoulders fall. He gently takes your elbow, leading you down the hall.

“Come on, let’s get back to my room before Jack decides to stick you back in a cell. If I’d have known it would devolve into a screaming match, I would have stayed.”

“He’s cruel. He so cruel, the way he talks about Gabriel.” You whimper, wiping tears from your face. “He doesn’t even know him. If he did, he wouldn’t talk about him like that. He couldn’t talk about him like that.”

“Jack’s under a lot of stress lately,” Roan admits. “He’s been really tense since yesterday.”

“Probably because of the missing agent,” you mutter, drying your eyes.

Roan stops short. “What?”

“The—missing agent. Gabriel took someone prisoner. Uh… Lúcio was the name.”

The colour drains from Roan’s face, and he spins to face you. “_What_? He—he did _what_? Oh no. Oh god, no wonder Jack’s like that.” Roan looks a little scared. “Reaper… he wouldn’t hurt him, would he?”

“Only if he deserved it.”

Roan shakes his head. “This is bad. This is really bad, [Y/N]. If he hurts Lúcio, then there’s no way Jack will let you go back to him.”

You swallow, and Roan coaxes you into the room. He flinches when something beeps, and he checks a small comm.

“It’s Jack,” he mutters, and then his eyes widen. “He’s calling a meeting. Something must have happened.” Roan gives you a frightened look, but he does his best to mask it. “Stay here, okay? I’ll tell you everything as soon as I get back.”

“Gabriel wouldn’t hurt your friend for no reason,” you say. “You know that, right?”

Roan hesitates. “I… I have to go. Stay here, okay? I’ll come straight back.”

Roan rushes out, leaving you standing there alone as your ears start to ring and the pain in your stomach and chest sharpen into something so strong your vision flickers. You sink to the ground, clutching the wall and struggling to drag in one shaky breath after another.

Somewhere deep inside your chest, a yawning void opens up and swallows your heart whole.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Notes:
> 
> Angst and Romance.
> 
> We've reached the end!

You’re shaking so hard that, if you unfocus your eyes, it almost looks like the table is shaking instead. Your world is its own miniature earthquake as you sit at the table with Roan, Angela, Lena, Jesse, Genji, and Jack. You made a point to learn their names. You figured that was the least you should do, considering they all hold your life in their hands.

“I really don’t feel comfortable leavin’ Lúcio there, Jack,” Jesse sighs. It’s the third time he’s said it. “Reaper’s unpredictable. We should take the chance while we have it.”

“So how can we trust that it isn’t setup?” Lena fires back. “You know I’d never vote to leave anyone behind, but this seems too good to be true. I don’t trust it.”

“So we just leave him?”

“I’m not saying that! I think we should set up a counter-ambush.”

“Reaper’ll see it coming a mile away.”

Jack groans, rubbing his forehead. “I asked you to weigh in on this because I thought it would help us get somewhere.”

Jesse frowns. “You can’t be thinking of abandoning Lúcio.”

“Of course not,” Angela pipes up. “We’re just not sure if we can trust this.”

Your fingertips are rattling on the tabletop. You’re so tense that something in your jaw is beginning to seize.

Jack sighs. “I don’t think we can justify the risk.”

“So we’re not gonna try to rescue him?” Jesse exclaims.

Jack looks up at him with weary eyes. “I don’t think we can take the risk of not trying. I’m—I’m at the end of my rope, here. I don’t know what Reaper’s play is, but I don’t think I can justify leaving Lúcio.”

Jesse sighs in relief, and Lena looks worried.

“It seems too easy,” she insists. “I don’t want to leave him either, but this really seems like a setup to an ambush.”

“Then we’ll just have to be prepared,” Jesse says.

You’re afraid to breathe too loud, in case they change their minds again. They’ve been bouncing back and forth for the past hour, debating and arguing and half-deciding on whether or not to trust Gabriel’s offer.

Gabriel contacted Jack yesterday, just moments after you left his office. He told him that he had one of his agents, and that he was willing to exchange hostages: Lúcio for you. There was also the warning that if anyone hurt you, the Overwatch agent would die.

You could hardly believe it. You nearly broke down when Roan told you, and watching the group argue about it for a solid hour had your nerves frayed. You almost sympathized with Jack, just for the briefest moment.

“The exchange is in five hours,” Jack warns. “We should head out in two, to set up positions nearby. I want to scout the area first, so we don’t get any surprises. Be ready to board the jet in exactly two hours.”

A round of agreement sweeps around the table, and finally, finally, the meeting dismisses. You can hardly process it, and you’re back in Roan’s room when it finally hits you.

You’re going to see Gabriel. You’re going to see _Gabriel_.

It doesn’t feel real, and you’re so terrified that someone’s mind will change and the tenuous opportunity will be torn from your hands. It’s a special kind of torture, to spend two solid hours with anxiety strong enough to make you dizzy. You feel so, so bad. After so long without Gabriel, you’re ragged. You’re battered. You’re all kinds of broken, and the sucking void in your chest has taken up permanent residence. You can barely believe you might get to see him. You try so very hard not to hope. You don’t think you could survive the disappointment.

But when the two hours crawl past, and Roan brings you out to the hangar, no one has cancelled the trip. When you join the others in their battle gear, no one tells you that there’s been a change of plans. Your heart has been racing for the past few hours, but now it kicks up into painful, burning a hummingbird friction against your ribs.

You nearly puke when the jet takes off. Your stomach is so in knots that even looking around too fast makes you feel sick. It feels like you’re suffering from the worst flu, but the mere thought of seeing Gabriel keeps you going. You’d push yourself to the ends of the earth just for a glimpse of him. You miss him so fiercely, just the though of him makes you shudder with longing.

The jet lands, and you stumble off of it like a newborn deer. You can barely walk straight, and breathing is hard. You’re so close, and you’re so very afraid everything is going to collapse. It doesn’t feel real. You can’t believe it, and it only makes you more nervous that something will go horrible, terribly wrong.

Jack gets a room at a cheap motel with a chipping sign, and you set up base there. He sends Jesse and Lena off to scout the area, and he alternates between talking to them on coms, and talking quietly with Angela as they pour over a map and make notes.

Roan is in charge of you, and he has to put up with your overflowing nerves. You fidget and pace and walk in and out of the bathroom as your stomach decides whether or not to relieve your breakfast. Your arms are unsteady, buzzing with adrenaline that hasn’t disappeared for hours. You feel like you might be dying.

Angela presses a hand to your head and frowns.

“You look ill,” she notes, muttering about a fever.

“How much longer?” you reply, and she leaves you be.

Jesse and Lena return just as the sun is beginning to approach the horizon. The orange stones of the city turn bronze in the dawning light, and it gives you a headache.

“Ready?” Jack checks, and you leap to your feet. You nearly collapse, swaying as your vision swims. You brush off Roan’s concern, and your pulse picks up a painful tempo once more.

Walking through the streets is agony. It’s very close to the motel, but every step feels like stepping on broken glass. Jesse and Lena split off to take up adjacent positions, and Angela falls back a bit for support as you walk beneath a narrow archway.

Jack stops you with an arm. Before you is a small bridge, spanning one of the narrow canals. The water glitters cerulean in the sun, and the sight would be pretty if you weren’t in so much pain. The other side of the bridge is empty.

“Fall back with Angela,” Jack mutters, and Roan gives your shoulder a squeeze before he obeys.

The day is warm, and you feel heat sickness creep up over you. You close your eyes, and the gaping void in your chest drags at your bones, folding them inwards. You’re a black hole, collapsing, imploding. Soon enough, there will be nothing left but the echo of your anguish.

Footsteps tap over stone, and you drag your eyes back open. For a moment the world is a blur of light, and then your vision focuses. In the archway across the bridge, tucked in the shadows, are two figures.

Jack puts a hand on the gun at his hip.

The figures step forwards, into the light.

The void in your chest stops sucking. It stops, chokes, and reverses all at once. It regurgitates your heart back into your chest, and suddenly the pain is drowned out with the wild, overwhelming rush of hope, hope, hope and joy.

You make a choked noise, but Jack doesn’t look at you. He’s focused on the young man beside Gabriel, but you’re focused on your alpha.

Gabriel is dressed all in black, masked, but your heart still leaps at the sight of him. Your chest aches with happiness, and you want to be close to him so badly that you could cry. Gabriel stops at his side of the bridge. His gaze is inscrutable behind the mask. Beside him, the man looks nervous but unhurt.

You take a half step forwards, and Jack stops you. Gabriel tenses.

“Walk slowly towards the centre of the bridge. If he doesn’t send Lúcio to meet you, then stop. Don’t make me have to shoot you.”

You nod, breathless. You don’t care if you get shot, as long as you can be by Gabriel’s side.

“Go ahead.”

Your whole body trembles as you start forwards. You feel like you’ve forgotten how to walk. You body responds jerkily, and you stagger a little. Gabriel makes a motion, and the man beside him walks towards you.

It’s harder and harder to stay slow with every step. You reach the centre of the bridge, and Lúcio pauses when he reaches you. He searches your face, worried. You can’t keep your eyes off Gabriel. After the briefest moment, you step past Lúcio. Closer to Gabriel than to Overwatch.

Your bones begin to vibrate. Your chest fills with suffocating breathlessness, and your feet are moving a little faster. Gabriel is so close, and you catch a whiff of his scent on the wind, and you’re gone. You break into a run, and he takes two quick steps towards you before you collide. You slam into his chest, flinging your arms around him as he grabs you hard. You sob, burying your face in his cloak. You breathe in his scent of earth and evening air and familiar spice, and you can smell his worry, his fear, his relief, his _joy_ as he crushes you in a hug that forces the last of the hurt out of you.

You’re sobbing, an absolute mess as you cling to him. Your heart has returned, and the euphoria of it is hitting you all at once, so hard you can barely stand. Your knees go weak and Gabriel holds you tighter. It’s all so much that you nearly pass out. Light-headedness sweeps over you, and at the last second Gabriel pulls back to run his hands all down your arms, over your shoulders, up to cradle your face.

“Are you hurt? Did they hurt you? _Dulzura_, _mi vida_, did they hurt you?” His claws stroke over your hair, gentle and searching. His sweet, deep voice is heaven and you lean into his touch.

“I’m fine. I’m fine, I’m wonderful, are you hurt? I was so worried, after the explosion—are you okay? Are you hurt?”

“I’m sorry, I’m so _sorry_,” he rasps. He pulls you back to his chest, wrapping you in a crushing embrace. “They took you. They _took_ you and I wasn’t able to stop it. I wasn’t able to save you. I’m so sorry, I’ll never be sorry enough—”

“It’s okay, it’s okay, you’re here,” you whimper. You bury your face in his shoulder and breathe in his scent. You’re home, you’re _home_. “I love you, I love you, I love you, I missed you so _much_—”

Gabriel’s hands flurry over you, checking that you’re all in one piece as he nuzzles into your neck and scents you. “I missed you so much, _querida_. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry, my angel—”

“Don’t let me go,” you plead. You don’t think you could bear it.

“Never,” he breathes. “Never again.” His mask nuzzles against your temple. “Tell me if they hurt you. I’ll make them pay.”

“I’m fine. I’m okay.” You squeeze him tighter. Your tears are beginning to soak his cloak. “I’m so happy to see you.” It makes your lungs clench, but you pull back enough to look him over. He’s cloaked and armed and armoured, but he doesn’t look like he’s in rough shape. Another knot of tension unravels and you clutch his arm for support. “I’m so happy to see you.” You blink up at him through lashes jewelled with tears. “No matter what they said. I’m happy you’re here.”

Gabriel stops, and his voice changes. “No matter what they said? What… did they say?”

You shake your head. “It doesn’t matter, I—”

“What did they say?” he demands. His tone is low, unusually intense. “What did they tell you?”

You can smell his tensions, his nervousness, so very close to the beginnings of panic. You give his hand a gentle squeeze. “Later, okay? Not… here.”

Gabriel looks up past you, sudden and sharp, like he’d forgotten you weren’t alone. You follow his gaze to the other side of the bridge, where all the Overwatch agents have gathered to gape at you. They’re staring at you and Gabriel with blatant shock, but you don’t care. At least now, after everything, they’ll know the truth. They have to see that he really does care. And if they don’t, well, you couldn’t care less—they’re never pulling you apart again.

Gabriel’s claws curl around your hand and he gives it a little tug. “Come on. I have a hotel rented nearby, in case things went south. We can shack up there for tonight and fly back in the morning.”

You nod, letting him pull you into the shadows. He’s careful to put you in front of him, shielding your body from Overwatch until you slip around the corner. Gabriel picks up pace the instant you’re out of sight, and you hold his hand, letting him hurry you along through a labyrinth of back streets and narrow, twisting alleys. You slow to a walk at some point, but you don’t speak. Gabriel leads you around to the back of a seedy-looking hotel, up some rickety stairs to the second level. He pulls out a key, giving the door a bit of a shove with his shoulder before it swings open.

The inside isn’t as bad as you were expecting. It’s no five-star resort, but it looks clean enough, and although the paint is peeling, there are no suspicious stains. You wander over to the single bed, sitting on the foot of it and toeing off your boots. You tuck your legs up under you, and only once you’ve settled do you realize that Gabriel is still lurking at the threshold.

“What are you doing?” you ask. You pat the bed beside you. “I missed you. Let me see your face.”

Gabriel doesn’t budge, and a swirl of nerves returns to your gut.

“What did they say to you? About me?” His voice is low and a little bit rough in that way that sounds threatening. You can sense the defensiveness beneath it, and Gabriel’s taloned fingers flex at his sides.

You drop your feet to the floor, straightening up enough so he knows you’re serious. “Does it matter?”

“What did they _tell you_?” he demands, getting a little louder. The pang of his fear strikes you hard, and you swallow as your own nerves react. You can feel yourself beginning to get jittery as your instincts panic over why he’s upset, what’s hurting your alpha.

“He told me about your past with Overwatch,” you say. “He told me that you used to be one of them, and he told me about—about the explosions at the Swiss headquarters.”

Gabriel flinches. “What else?”

You bite your lip, and he raises his chin.

“What _else_?”

“He called you a murder,” you whisper. “He said you were a liar, and a traitor, and he said that you were just manipulating me.” You look up at him, letting out a dry laugh. “They wouldn’t let me go because they had themselves convinced you’d tricked me into loving you.”

Gabriel doesn’t react, other than to flex a hand slowly one, twice.

“They… also said that you were there,” you hedge. “At Beacon.”

Gabriel gives a little flinch again, like it hurts to hear.

“Jack said that you were there during the attack.”

“I—” Gabriel’s voice comes out choked, and he swallows before trying again. “I was part of the Beacon mission. I wasn’t part of the incursion, just a part of the team assigned to break into the warehouse and retrieve the weapon plans…” He trails off, defensiveness dying. “They told you I’m a traitor. A liar. A _monster_.”

You bristle, but do your best to soothe him. “They said a lot of things about you—”

Gabriel cuts you off as he tosses the room key to the bed. It lands beside you with a jangle, and you pick it up on reflex. Gabriel turns away, stepping into the room so that you have a straight path to the door. He stays half turned away from you, staring into the corner.

“Go.”

“…What?”

“Go,” he breathes. “Leave. I won’t stop you. I won’t look for you. I’ll stay out of your life. Just go.”

He refuses to look at you as you slowly stand. Without shoes on, your steps are practically silent. The motel carpet is thin, and the floor is hard under your feet. You clutch the keys in one hand as you carefully walk across the room, and Gabriel jumps when you step up behind him and wrap your arms around his middle. He goes rigid, and you can smell the anxiousness and hurt flooding off of him. You hug tighter, burying your face against his back. Beneath the thick cloak, you can feel the slope of his spine and shoulder blades.

“Oh, Gabriel,” you murmur. “My alpha. I’m not going anywhere.”

He’s starting to shake just a little bit, and his voice is a mask of harshness, cracking slightly to reveal the frightened vulnerability beneath. “They weren’t lying. What they told you is the truth. I have done terrible things. I haven’t done all the things they say I did, not the way they think, but—I’ve done things just as bad. I’ve done _worse_. I’ve killed innocent people, made mistakes—made _choices_.” His voice breaks and he finally spins around in your arms, pushing you back to hold you by the shoulders.

“I’m a monster, [Y/N],” he says, and his hands fall away. “I’m sorry. I thought—I thought if you didn’t know, you’d still be able to love me. I just wanted to pretend that I was redeemable. You were the only one who ever saw me that way.” He chokes a little. “It wasn’t fair. I really am irredeemable, letting you believe that I deserved even an ounce of your love, after everything I’ve done.”

Gabriel’s hands are trembling at his sides, and his head is bent towards the ground. The scent of his anguish stings like iron and thunderstorms. You move slowly, afraid to startle him. Your fingers brush his mask, and Gabriel’s shoulders hunch.

“You’re no monster, Gabriel,” you murmur. You gently remove the mask, setting it down on the table along with the keys. His face twists in a wince of pain, and he won’t meet your eyes. You can see the guilt and shame written all across his expression. The ache of it is engraved so deeply into his face that you wonder how you haven’t notice it before. You swallow down a painful lump in your throat, choking back emotion.

You carefully, gently touch your hand to Gabriel’s scarred cheek. His eyes shut tight, and from the look on his face, you’d almost think your touch burned.

“You’re not a monster,” you tell him again. “You’ve made mistakes, but that doesn’t make you a monster. You’re not your mistakes. You can’t change the past, but you can decide what to do from here on out, and whatever you decide, I’m with you. I’m with you, okay?” You tilt his face up, finally meeting his eyes as you stroke his cheek. All that guilt and shame—he’s carried it too long. “It’s enough,” you tell him. “You’ve suffered enough.” You cradle his jaw, brushing your thumb featherlight over his scar. “I forgive you.”

He breaks. Like your words are a knife in his gut, Gabriel makes a wounded noise and shatters. The tears gathering in his dark eyes finally spill over and his face crumbles and his shoulders hunch and he grabs on tight to your wrists like you’re his only anchor.

“I forgive you, Gabriel. I’m with you, and I love you, and I forgive you. You aren’t a monster. I’ll _tell_ you who you are. You’re my mate, my alpha, my Gabriel. You’re my lover and my protector, and my best friend. And I don’t want you to suffer anymore.”

You press the most delicate kiss to his forehead, lingering a moment before you settle back onto your heels. You’re entirely unprepared for Gabriel’s eyes to fly open, for him to grab you around the waist and yank you close and kiss you like an electric fire. He kisses you firm and deep, and you melt against him in an instant. It feels so right, so perfect to be back in his arms. You fight back tears as Gabriel pulls you back with him until you fall onto the bed, breaking apart.

Gabriel cups your cheek, studying your face. He looks so vulnerable it breaks your heart. You grab his hand, nuzzling into it.

“Don’t look at me like that. It makes me want to hide you away somewhere safe.”

He laughs, spluttering. “Do you hear yourself right now?”

Even the startled chuckle is enough to make your heart swell, and you pull him in to kiss him again. You want to see him happy. You want to erase the pain in his brow, to chase away the guilt etched into the corners of his frown. You kiss his lips until you feel them relax, respond, lose the tension.

Gabriel brushes your cheek, cupping the back of your head as he lies down with you atop him. You rest your hands on his chest, kissing away everything but tenderness. You pepper light kisses all across his cheeks and his brow before your heart surges and you bury your face in the crook of his neck.

“I missed you so much,” you gasp, muffled in his shoulder. “I was miserable without you. Don’t ever leave me again.”

“Never,” he whispers. Strong hands pull you up so Gabriel can look you in the eye. “It nearly killed me to lose you. I’ll die before I let anyone take you from me again.”

You fall together, losing yourself in a haze of lips and hands and skin, of gentle touches and passionate whispers. You move like waves, pushing together in a fate-written rhythm as you shed layer after layer until you’re just skin against skin, rushing together to merge into one.

Gabriel’s hands run down your sides, mapping out your body as you slide down onto him. You gasp, caught up in the ecstasy of him.

“Oh,” you moan, when he rocks his hips. “Right there.”

He teases you, stroking over your sides and thighs as he languidly rolls his hips into you. You splay your hands against his chest, and it isn’t long before you’re shuddering and barely staying upright.

“_Gabriel_.”

“You look so good like this,” he purrs, squeezing your thigh. “You smell like heaven.”

You whine, grinding down against him. “Don’t tease. I want to _feel_ you.”

He growls, and his hips pause. “You want it rough?”

“I’ve been missing you for _ages_,” you say. “I want you to fuck me so hard I forget you were gone.”

A snarl rips out of him, and a moment later Gabriel pulls out of you, flipping you over. Your back hits the mattress, and then he pushes up your thighs, thrusting into you so fast that you cry out in a mix of shock and pleasure. He drives into you at a punishing pace, and your toes curl as your legs squeeze tight around his waist.

“You feel so good,” you moan, gasping with each slam of his hips. “_Oh_, you’re perfect, Gabriel!” You head falls back and you lose yourself in the delicious feel of his skin, the intoxicating shroud of his scent. You’re already starting to twitch with pleasure, and Gabriel leans down over you. You moan into his mouth, clinging to him. Your fingers tangle in his hair, and he kisses you just as fiercely as he brings you to the edge. You’re starting to grow dizzy from the kissing, and your head goes fuzzy at the edges. You tug at his hair, but Gabriel doesn’t let up. His tongue slides against yours, and he thrusts into you, filling you so well—

You come hard. Your eyes roll back and your body goes violently tense, and the light-headedness only make it all the more pleasurable. The buzz of it fades, and you relax back into the bed, separating from Gabriel’s mouth to pant for breath.

His eyes are dark, pupils wide and eyes half-lidded. His lips are parted, glistening wet, and he’s looking at you with the rawest lust you’ve ever seen. Your hand is still in his hair, and you loosen your brutal grip.

“Sorry,” you laugh. “I—”

He dives on you before you can finish the though. He’s kissing you fast and hard, and you dissolve beneath his insistent lips, his expert tongue. He reduces you to a puddle, and you’re all too happy to let him as the buzz of your orgasm peters out and you can focus once more on the terrible temptation of his mouth.

Gabriel rolls his hips as he kisses you, and you encourage him by rocking yours up to meet him. It doesn’t take long for him to give in, and you cling to him, nuzzling messily against his neck as he growls against your hair. You grab hold of his bicep, moaning aloud at the delicious flex of his muscles as he pounds into you. You can’t seem to keep your hands off his body.

“You’re terrible,” he growls, kissing your shoulder. “You sound so good.”

“Please,” you whine, and he nibbles your ear.

“You sound even better when you beg for me.”

Gabriel catches your wrist, pinning it above your head as he pushes you towards a second climax. You clench down around him, entranced by the desire written clear across his face. Gabriel’s expression twists in pleasure, and he grunts, rhythm stuttering. You tighten around him again and he curses, squeezing your wrist.

“You feel so good,” you croon. Your free hand brushes up over his shoulder and you stroke his cheek, his jaw, the curls of hair fallen over his forehead. You catch his chin, and he lets you pull him down into a kiss. “You make me feel so _good_.”

He groans, sucking on your bottom lip. You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him down. You hold him close, whining happily when he shifts to lave kisses all over your scent glands. He slides into you so wonderfully, and you pull him close and arch your back.

“Make me yours.”

Gabriel’s teeth sink into your neck as he breaks. His hips stutter and jerk, and then you feel him spill into you as he moans against your skin. He pulls back quickly, kissing your neck sweetly before bracing himself over you on one hand. He’s breathing hard, cheeks flushed and eyes heavy. You have a feeling that you don’t look much different.

You bite your lip as you look him over. “Wow.”

He growls, predatory as he bends down to breathe the same air as you. “We’re just getting started. I plan to make you forget you were ever away from me.”

You moan, ignited by his words. You can feel his release leaking out between your thighs, and he catches you off guard when he slides three fingers into you.

“Gabriel!” you squeal, and then you stutter. Gabriel uses his free hand to hold your hips down, curling his others fingers into you. You would blush at the wet sound of it, but you’re too busy squirming against the sheets. “_Oh_, that’s—”

“Feel good?” he purrs lazily. “I want to hear you screaming my name.” He kisses your hip, lingering. His dark eyes flick up, and you nearly come just from the look on his face. A slow smirk curls its way over his lips. Those wicked fingers expertly caress you, and your breathing starts to go funny.

“You look beautiful like this,” Gabriel continues easily. He completely disregards the way you cling to his arm with one hand. “You look so good, falling to pieces.”

You gasp at a particularly wonderful curl of his fingers, and he gently kisses your stomach.

“You’re too good to me,” he breathes against your skin, and then all you can do is gasp and see stars when Gabriel slides down to get his mouth between your legs. His tongue is ecstasy, his fingers pure sin, and he feels so incredible that you come to pieces twice under his expert attentions. He kisses his way languidly up your body, nuzzling at your temple as he drapes himself comfortably against you.

“I don’t think so,” you mumble, squirming out of his grasp. Gabriel makes a noise of surprise, but you bat his hands away, pushing him onto his back and straddling him. When he reaches for you again you catch his wrist, and he allows you to pin both his hands over his head with an amused huff.

“What are you doing?”

“It’s my turn,” you tell him, and that’s as much of an explanation as he gets. He’s so wonderful, so good to you, and you hold his arms above his head as you lean down to kiss him.

His lips are warm and wet, and you lick the slickness from his upper lip before you coax his mouth open. He complies easily, moaning softly into the kiss. You bring one hand to his face, tilting his jaw so you can deepen the kiss. You can’t stop your eyes from fluttering shut, but you hardly need to see when just the touch of him is overwhelming your senses.

You caress his jaw, kissing him again and again until you feel like your chest might burst with how much you adore him.

“Mine, mine, mine,” you whisper against his lips. “You’re _mine_.”

“Yes,” he breathes, barely getting it out before your mouth meets his. You tease your teeth over his lip, slide your tongue against his, and he lets out a soft sigh.

“Prove it,” you demand, shifting back against him. His half-hard length presses on your thigh, and you tease the both of you by sliding your wet folds against him. Gabriel groans loudly, pulling his wrist free from your grasp so that he can grab your hip. He leaves his other arm where you have it, your fingers curled over his pulse.

Gabriel guides your hips back onto him, and you watch the way his expression changes. It goes from hungry to tense to _divine_. When you sink down on him, the pleasure sings through you, but Gabriel’s face has your focus. His mouth falls into something lax and rounded, eyelids lowering, cheeks dusting with a dark flush. His eyebrows pull in up pleasure, and the sight makes you clench down around him.

Gabriel groans, and his body tenses from the hand on your thigh to the muscles of his abdomen. You rock your hips against him, drinking in the delicious moan he rewards you with.

“Gabriel,” you croon. “_Alpha_.”

He snarls, hips snapping up into you. You moan loudly, and you quickly lose the last dregs of your self-control. He smells so unbearable intoxicating, and the way he _looks_ and _sounds_—you whimper, and it isn’t long before he’s reversed you positions. He pins your arm above your head with one hand as he fucks you. His mouth is on your neck, interspersing kisses and curses with the occasional grunt or moan. You drape your legs over his hips, whining.

“You smell so good,” he growls, kissing your neck. “Sound so good. Fuck, I love you.”

“Oh,” you moan. “Yes, Gabriel—”

“Love it when you say my name,” he adds, igniting the pleasure building inside you. “You’re better than I deserve but I—_fuck_—I’m gonna treat you right. I’m gonna give you the world.”

You cry out, toes curling as the pleasure blinds you. Gabriel follows quickly, hissing as you tighten around him. You’re hardly aware of it, trembling with the waves of pleasure that race through you. When you fall limp against the sheets, your body is humming with a lovely, satisfied warmth. You feel so heavy and comfortable you can’t imagine anything better. And then Gabriel snuggles up to you, and you think you might die of happiness.

You roll your head to look at him, and he smiles gently, kissing your temple. He brushes back your hair, cradling your cheek.

“I mean it,” he murmurs. He presses another kiss to your brow. “Anything you want, just say the word. You deserve the world.”

“Anything?” you ask, and he hums in agreement. You roll over to face him, pulling him into your arms. He huffs as you tug him to your chest, but relaxes in a heartbeat. “I want you.”

“That’s a given,” he says, and you giggle.

Some dark curls are stuck to his temples and forehead, and you delicately brush them back with one finger. You take your time, tucking each one back into place, and Gabriel makes a pleased noise in the back of his throat. You smile, running your fingers through his hair as he snuggles against your chest.

“So what now?” you ask softly. He looks so content that it makes you melt, and you don’t doubt that he can hear your heart beating beneath his cheek. “Back to Talon? Or are we going somewhere else?”

Gabriel makes a contemplative noise, and he nuzzles against you a little. His eyes are closed, and you run your fingertips lightly down his jaw.

“We’ll decide that in the morning,” he murmurs. “We could. Or we could run away. Become fugitives.” His eyes open, and he gives you a wicked look as he kisses over your collarbone. “We could catch the next train out of here, if you want to. But we’ll decide later.” His kisses trail lower, and you laugh, tangling your fingers in his hair. His eyes flicker up to you, and he smirks. He’s so devilishly handsome that you can’t possibly stop him. You bite your lip, already anticipating the perfection of his touch.

“Will we?” you tease.

“Mm. First thing. But right now I have something very important I need to take care of.”

You laugh, smacking his shoulder. He looks far too pleased with himself, and you lie back against the heap of pillows as Gabriel’s expert hands run down your skin. Somewhere outside you can hear the distant rush of the ocean, like the pulse of blood in your ears. You can feel Gabriel’s smile against your skin as he tenderly nuzzles your stomach. You stroke his hair, grinning down at him as he watches you with amusement and affection. You breathe in deep, Gabriel’s scent underlined by the faint smell of motel smoke and dust and must. He smells like sunlight, like cinnamon and sugar, sweet and soft and lovely. He smells like the morning after rain, and lying in fresh grass, and the most familiar spice. He smells like a million things, and even with the barrage on your senses, you can only truly describe it one way. Gabriel smells like comfort, and happiness, and the sweetest thing imaginable. He smells like home.


End file.
